


I Think I'm Finally Okay

by earthseraph



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Asphyxiation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Meet-Cute, Top!Bucky, bottom!Steve, but not the sexy kind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:54:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24900412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earthseraph/pseuds/earthseraph
Summary: The elevator is silent for another moment, and Steve is sosotired.“Love you,” the man says.Steve blinks, his mama didn’t raise a rude son, “Love you, too.”The man turns around, looking at Steve with an eyebrow raised, and Steve realizes what he did.He just told a random stranger he loved him.The man points to his right ear where Steve can see a small, white headphone tucked away.He feels his face begin to burn with a blush and opens his mouth to apologize, explain where he just came from, how many robots he just killed, when the man turns around.Or: the one where they meet on an elevator
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 23
Kudos: 395





	I Think I'm Finally Okay

**Author's Note:**

> Title from [My Moon by Jess Benko](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KSIT3W5IE_w)
> 
> Enjoy!

“Good job, team,” Tony says, slapping Steve on the back, “all of the swamp monsters are dead and it’s barely noon!”

“See that would be fine if we weren’t out there since ten the night before.” Clint groans, letting his head drop on to the table in front of him with a _thonk_.

Steve watches the scene in front of him without absorbing anything. Every word, every movement, everything his team does goes in one ear and slides out the other. He pushes himself up from his seat and sighs. He’s so tired. 

“While it was nice spending the last fourteen hours with all of you,” Steve says, sliding his chair under the table, “home is calling me. I think my plants need to be watered.”

Clint gives him a thumbs up from where he’s slouched on the table.

“There’s a floor in the Tower with your name on it,” Tony says, already mixing himself a drink, probably a vodka tonic since he’s been on a clear liquids kick, “fully furnished, JARVIS has a plant watering timer built in.”

Tony is like the kid at school who always wants their friends to spend the night. Steve kinda feels bad for him. 

“Not today, Stark,” Steve shakes his head, “maybe when my lease is up.”

Natasha throws a grape at his head, she’s lounging comfortably against Clint’s slumped body, a bowl of green grapes on the table in front of her, “Steve, your lease will never be up.”

Steve shrugs, grinning to himself, “I like to pay in advance.” He picks up the large canvas backpack by his knee. The bag holds his suit and shield, the straps from his shield coming out of slits in the bag. It’s a good way for him not to get noticed on the way home while also keeping the shield on him. 

“Boo,” Tony yells as Steve leaves the commons, “my Tower has better water pressure!”

Steve snorts with a shake of his head, pushing the button for the elevator. He steps in as it opens, “Tony, I grew up taking baths with a rag and a pot of water. The water pressure in my apartment is luxurious.”

He hears Tony squawk before the elevator doors close and he can finally, blissfully, let his shoulders sag as he leans against the wall. It’s hard trying to be chipper, trying to joke with the rest of the team, when all he wants to do is rest. Unfortunately, with the body and serum that saves him time and time again, he can hardly rest his mind. He gets a handful of hours of sleep here and there. More like naps than completing a proper sleep cycle, but after three hours his body is completely alert. He’s ready to take on the day, the mission. It makes sense, too, he _is_ a genetically engineered soldier. Of course they’d want him to only sleep short bouts, to never be at ease. The goal was to create an army of people like him, not just the one they ended up with. 

The elevator dings open to the Tower’s basement parking garage. The air is thick and humid as Steve walks through it, Manhattan summer at its peak. He weaves between Tony’s ridiculous collection of cars, seemingly walking through different historical eras, before getting to his motorcycle. 

He sits with another sigh on his bike, turning the key in the ignition, excited to go home and get his three measly hours of sleep.

Thankfully, the killer bots were in LA so all of the streets in Manhattan are open with typical day-to-day traffic. He can deal with that. It’s easy to evade red lights, swerving through traffic openings, accepting all the honks and yells from car windows his driving skills get. If he didn’t drive like an idiot it would take him double the time to get to Brooklyn. Besides, all the decisions he makes never put civilians in danger. Hell, he even takes pigeons into account before quickly speeding through a yellow light. 

Steve parks his bike on the curb, knowing full well Tony paid the landlord to keep this part of the curb free for Steve to use. He’s grateful, he is, but he also feels a little guilty for essentially having a reserved spot.

He swings his leg over the bike, stepping onto the sidewalk and stretching his aching shoulders, this time his sigh is in relief. 

Usually, Steve opts for the stairs. They’re located just outside the apartment, a precarious iron walk up that he prefers instead of the elevator because it never fails that he runs into someone. The people in this complex are kind enough to not bother him with questions, but sometimes they ogle. Sizing him up in their heads, comparing him to their personal expectations. It’s a little much on most days, but today. Muscles full of exhaust, brain full of clouds, he just wants to be home. Not walk up what would feel like fifty thousand steps. 

Elevator it is. 

The lobby is empty when he walks in, he relaxes his shoulders. Steve pushes the up button, this time because he needs to not like with JARVIS, where he usually just feels like pressing the button. A moment passes and the elevator opens, blessedly empty. 

He walks in, pushing the button for the 13th floor and leans against the back wall. Steve can feel his eyes drooping, just a little, as the adrenaline begins to finish its drain from his body. He decides he’ll keep his eyes closed until he gets up to his floor, already accustomed to how long the elevator takes until it moves. How much time there is between floors, between the ding notifying him of the floor he lives on and when he doors actually open. 

Steve’s settled with this decision when the doors ding again, meaning only one thing -- another person’s stepping into the elevator with him. 

Slowly Steve blinks his eyes open, already drowsy with a need to sleep.

The man is about his build, maybe an inch or two shorter. He enters silently, not paying any attention to Steve. 

Steve nods to himself, decides that he can let himself continue with his leaning, and listens for tell tale ding of the doors closing. 

The elevator is silent for another moment, and Steve is so _so_ tired. 

“Love you,” the man says. 

Steve blinks, his mama didn’t raise a rude son, “Love you, too.”

The man turns around, looking at Steve with an eyebrow raised, and Steve realizes what he did.

He just told a random stranger he loved him. 

The man points to his right ear where Steve can see a small, white headphone tucked away. 

He feels his face begin to burn with a blush and opens his mouth to apologize, explain where he just came from, how many robots he just killed, when the man turns around. 

“No, I just got home.” The man continues his conversation, as if nothing happened. 

All the tired from Steve’s body has washed away. He’s at full attention, no longer leaning, no longer sleepy, but eyes open wide ready for the elevator doors to open. 

The moment the elevator stops at his floor Steve bolts out. While nothing can embarrass Captain America, everything can embarrass one Steven Grant Rogers. Thankfully, his door has face scanning biometrics and opens as soon as he walks up to it. He sighs again as the door closes, this time because he can never take the elevator ever again.

* * *

Steve wakes up with a shout, shooting up out of his bed, hands moving to his shield. 

He takes in a shaky breath as his heart beats, pounds, against his chest. He looks around the room for waxy red faces, icebergs, and prodding doctors. There’s none. Orange light of the early evening floods his bedroom, illuminating the bare dresser across from his bed and the lone framed photo on his wall. No red faces, ice, or scientists to be found. 

With a deep, shaky sigh, Steve sits down on the bed. He breathes until his heart slows down, until his hands stop shaking. Nightmares are normal for him, they come most nights a week, but no matter how many times he wakes up screaming, he’ll never get used to them. With one more deep breath, Steve pushes himself out of bed again. 

Quickly, almost mindlessly, he remakes his bed. Folding and tucking the sheets just right until they’re taught against the mattress, like a well strung bow. He remembers his mom teaching him how to make a bed just right, perfect enough that any sheets would look luxurious. He smiles a little at the memory of her, letting the tips of his fingers touch the sheets, how his mom would have loved the billion thread count sheets Pepper forced on him. 

Steve moves around his quiet apartment slowly, his socked feet sliding against the smooth wooden floors. Sleeping after a mission is always confusing for his body. Sure, he just fought for his life and the life of others for more than ten straight hours. But his body is designed to keep moving. Mentally, he’d like to continue being asleep. Physically, though, his body is ready to move out again. His muscles are twitching with the need to move, his brain is flipping between _rest_ and _go go go_. So, Steve decides to go. 

He makes quick work of changing into jogging-appropriate clothes, tying perfect bows on his sneakers, before leaving the house once again. Jogging helps him get rid of pent up energy and takes him down streets he’s never seen before. Usually it’s a mindless action, something he can do without thinking too hard, or even at all. A nice reprieve from his constantly running mind. 

While waiting for the elevator he decides to pick up curry on the way home, craving butter chicken and delicious white rice. 

As the elevator doors ding open, Steve remembers his vow earlier. He remembers his body seeped with embarrassment and the overwhelming need to move cities. 

Because there he is. Wavy hair to his chin, headphones in his ears, a resting bitch face like no other. 

And Steve, still the kid who doesn’t know how to run away from a fight, silently steps into the elevator. His back to the man he accidentally confessed love to, wondering what deity he pissed off, what bad karma he has following him to get stuck with this man once again. 

The door, deciding to aid in Steve’s torment, closes slower than ever. Pausing a moment when it’s almost shut, before opening again.

Steve sighs, staring at the illuminated “Ground Floor” button on the elevator panel. Wishing for nothing more than either the sweet, peaceful event that would be death, or for the elevator to work as it should. Both sound good right about now. 

He makes a mental note to ask Tony if he can tinker with the elevator doors in exchange for Steve’s presence at movie night. 

“Men usually wait until after the first date to confess their love to me.” The man says, just behind Steve. 

Steve doesn’t jump, no, he’s a fucking Super Soldier. 

“Sometimes they say it in the throws of passion,” Steve can hear the grin in the man’s voice, “but never before either event.”

Steve looks over his shoulder at the guy, at the shit eating grin on his face, and rolls his eyes, “Apologies if I ruined your streak.” He’s lived in this century long enough that people casually talking about sex in front of him shouldn’t surprise him, but it still does. Not because he’s a prude- he ran around with the rough crowd before, he shared quarters with army men- but because there’s still a part of his brain that considers sex talk, public displays of affection, and propositioning taboo. 

The man shrugs, “There’s a first time for everything. Since you love me now,” the man chuckles, sticking a hand out, “might as well introduce myself. James, but everyone calls me Bucky.” Steve wonders if he does this to all the men he meets. Embarrasses them and then uses that as a segue in conversation.

Steve also isn’t sure if “Bucky” is a euphemism for something else but turns around to shake his hand anyways, “Everyone calls me Captain America, but I prefer Steve.” He doesn’t say that to throw his celebrity status around, he’s not trying to impress the guy, but because he’s pretty confident this man knows who he is.

The man, James - Bucky’s, jaw drops, “You’re Captain America?” Steve can see him trace his features with his eyes, give him a long once over, piecing Steve together like he’s a puzzle. 

That throws Steve for a loop, “Uh-”

“Holy fuck,” Bucky’s eyes are wide, with shock. It looks like realization just hit him with a brick. Steve doesn’t know if this is going to be a ‘thank you for your service’ or a ‘you were my childhood hero’ so he braces himself for both. 

“I just flirted with a national icon.”

Loop, thrown.

Steve brain short circuits on the word flirted. The guy is hot, there’s no doubt about that. Right up Steve’s alley. But that’s not what he was expecting. He’s never accidentally been flirted with, for a moment he’s surprised that he wasn’t automatically recognized and his brain follows that up with a bit of self depreciation before going back to the short circuit. “What do you mean-” 

The elevator opens on the ground floor, obviously the universe is now screwing with Steve, and Bucky runs out faster than Steve’s brain can register. He stays there, blinking at the now empty lobby area. The elevator begins to close and Steve quickly walks through. 

He’s been flirted with before by men, and he himself has flirted with men. All intentional. He’s never gone as far as a couple lines here and there because ultimately, he’s Captain America. It’s not because he has an image to uphold, or a certain political party’s feelings to protect, rather he’s never sure if people flirt with him because of his personality or because of the titles he has. He doesn’t want someone to sleep with him just so they can say they fucked Captain America. He’s not about to be a tick on someone’s bucket list, nor is he about to start PR fallout over a one night stand.

That being said, someone flirting with him, without knowing it was him, makes the embarrassing moment he had earlier worth it. Makes a little smile show up on his face, and maybe adds a little pep to his step as he goes on his half-marathon run. 

He hopes, his brain supplies ten miles in, that he can run into Bucky again. He’s not sure if he’s confident enough in himself to make a move, but it’s worth a shot. A hot guy like Bucky flirted with him without knowing he was Captain America. Correction, a hot guy like Bucky flirted with him without knowing he was Captain America while in a non-alcoholic setting, while in something as mundane as an elevator. 

That’s a pretty great accomplishment, if he’s being honest.

On his way home he gets two orders of butter chicken, and gulab jaman as a treat. 

All things considered, it’s been a great day.

* * *

“So let me get this straight-”

“There’s nothing straight about this,” Clint snorts, slapping his thigh at his own joke. 

Sam rolls his eyes before continuing, looking up in the air as if to picture it all, “You met a guy on the elevator-”

“He confessed his love to a guy on the elevator,” Natasha corrects, sitting down on the couch, resting her feet on Clint’s lap. This week she has a lavender manicure on. Steve wonders if her nail color each week is completely arbitrary or chocked full of meaning he’s not privy to. He adds that to his mental list of things to find out about Natasha.

Sam shoots her a glare, continuing once again, this time adding his hands into his air visualization, “And now you take the elevator every time you come and go in the event you run into him?”

Steve leans back in the recliner he’s sitting at and pinches between his eyebrows, purple nailpolish forgotten, “Unfortunately, yes.” 

It’s all ridiculous and Steve knows it. 

A week passed since he talked to Bucky in the elevator, and he hasn’t seen the man ever since. He enjoyed the bit of flirting, and honestly, Bucky’s just his type. Dark hair, resting bitch face, up front with what they want. He prefers those qualities in a person, rather that someone like him who’s a bit shy and a little modest when it comes to things like love and/or sex life. He’s a man of his time, he can’t help it.

“We could look him up,” Natasha offers, shrugging one of her shoulders, “it wouldn’t be hard.” Steve can already see her mind working with rocks to turn over, with ways to find this random man who lives in Steve’s complex. He wonders if she considers Bucky a potential threat, an agent trying to mole their way into Steve’s life.

Sam huffs, crossing his arms, air visualization over, “I like how you say that as if you were going to mosey on over to Google.” 

Clint looks up at Sam, and then over to Natasha, “We could do it the old fashioned way.” Clint perks up like an excited puppy at the idea. Steve feels bad for metaphorically kicking him.

“No,” Steve cuts off that train of thought, “nobody is going to look him up. We’re better than spying on innocent civilians.” He’s had this conversation with Nick and Maria, both on separate occasions. After the Agent 13 incident, he’s completely opposed to taking invasive action on perfectly innocent people. He knows she was just doing her job, that he was her mark, but it doesn’t hurt any less that he thought he made a friend outside the walls of the Tower. When instead she’s just like the rest of them, a nesting doll that only comes undone when something goes horribly wrong. 

“We did just take down those helicarriers.” Sam mutters, probably going through the moral consequences of invading the privacy of every-day people. Steve likes Sam for that, among everything else good and pure about Sam. He’s the most normal out of all of them and it shows in the way he thinks. The way he processes every mission, every interaction with the general population. 

“I’m going to run into him the old fashioned way,” Steve says, giving each and every one of them pointed looks, “There will be no use of espionage or otherwise.”

“Ugh,” Natasha groans, scrunching up her nose, “you’re so boring.”

Steve would go on about how not “looking someone up” is normal, and indeed not boring, and how invasive her skills can be, but he tables that conversation for a later date. She doesn’t need him telling her something she probably already knows. He’s not about to be one of those man-splainers Darcy lectured him about.

“Okay,” Sam says, clapping his hands together, obviously done with his moral dilemma and conversations of random men on elevators, “I came all the way over here with the promise of pizza and a Mission Impossible binge. What’s happening with that?” 

It’s ironic that a handful of government operatives are watching Mission Impossible, but Steve doesn’t point that out.

“Pizza ordered,” Clint says, ticking the item off on his finger, “movies are ready to go, and one Steve-boy-drama averted.” 

Steve rolls his eyes as Sam and Natasha chuckle, “Just put on the damn movie.”

* * *

“Sam, I really don’t recommend you do this. It’ll bruise your ego.” Steve stands with his hands on his hips, shaking his head at the sight of Sam stretching his hamstrings. He’s less worried about a bruised ego and more worried about a bruised everything else.

“Come on old man,” Sam moves into a twisted lizard, “afraid you’re going to get beat?”

Steve holds the eye roll, he doesn’t understand why Sam wants to do this. It’s pointless, but Steve will play host to a ridiculous idea, “No, I’m afraid you’re going to get hurt.”

Sam throws his head back, barking a laugh and switches sides on his lizard, “Steve the only people who get hurt while running are those who run on ice and nerd in movies. I,” Sam gets up from the ground, triumphant, “am neither an ice runner or a nerd.” Steve isn’t so sure about the last one, being a member of the Air Force would say otherwise. 

Steve just sighs, he knows this won’t end well, but again he will be the host to a party of poor life choices and injuries, “Fine, a two hundred meter dash. Here to that post over there,” he points off in the distance. He knows he can do two hundred meters in a handful of seconds if he really pushes himself. Whether he’s going to run as fast as possible, or hold back for Sam, Steve hasn’t yet decided.

“Let’s go!” Sam shouts, jumping up to add some hype to the situation. He looks like a kid in a candy store, all excited, all smiles with his gap tooth. 

Once again, Steve shakes his head, he’s starting to feel more like a father and less like a host, “Thank god there’s a hospital down the street,” he mutters, walking over to line up with Sam on the concrete. 

“Ready?” Sam asks, almost kneeling in a mock runner's stance.

“Three...” Steve counts down, “two... one!”

They both shoot off from the line on the sidewalk. Steve once again considers slowing himself down, letting Sam get a few steps ahead, but Sam would know. The pole is nearing, and Steve’s about to egg Sam on when he hears a yelp behind him. 

It takes him a couple long strides before Steve can stop his momentum. Looking down the sidewalk, he sees a crumpled Sam clutching his calve to his chest. Definitely injured, probably twisted. He walks over to Sam, standing over him, wanting to make-fun but also concerned. He can joke around later when he knows Sam didn’t bust his Achilles.

“You okay?” Steve asks, kneeling down. Steve can hear how hard Sam’s breathing, upon closer inspection he can see Sam’s ankle swelling underneath his sock. It doesn’t look good. He gives Sam the benefit of the doubt, maybe he’s so used to being his fly man that he forgot how gravity worked.

Sam’s eyebrows are pulled together, a grimace across his face, “Think I twisted my damn ankle.”

“There’s a hospital around the corner,” Steve pokes Sam in the shoulder, “we should get a brace before moving you to the Tower’s facilities.” Steve could probably make a splint out of some shrub twigs and a piece of his shirt, but they’re not in the field. There’s no need for him to go all Macgyver when a hospital is literally across the street. 

“I know,” Sam sighs, releasing his calve so he’s star-fished out on the concrete, “I think my ego is bruised more than anything.” 

Steve winces a bit, not because he beat Sam, or because of Sam’s ankle, but because of what he’s going to do next. 

“Sorry, man,” Steve pats Sam on the shoulder, standing up completely to walk around Sam’s body, “I’m not going to risk you hurting your ankle more and losing my right hand man in the field.” He wishes he could be petty and say ‘I told you so’ but this will have to do instead.

“What?” Sam starts, frowning up at Steve, “What in the hell are you talking about?”

Steve kneels by Sam’s left side and quickly scoops him up, ignoring Sam’s squawk of protest. 

“Steve!” Sam hisses, pushing at his shoulder, “Put me down! I can walk!”

“No, you can’t.” Steve answers, scurrying across the street so they both don’t get hit by a Brooklyn driver, wouldn’t that be something? Captain America and Falcon found crushed under a car in bridal carry, he can see all the headlines now, “It’ll take us ten minutes to get to the hospital with you hobbling. With me we’ll be there in two seconds.”

Sam covers his face with his hands, dramatically laying back in Steve’s arms, “You didn’t have to bridal carry me, man. Coulda went with a fireman carry, or hell, even backpack me. That would have been less embarrassing.” Sam doesn’t have fragile masculinity, he just has a bad case of a bruised and embarrassed ego. 

“I might have knocked your ankle that way,” Steve shrugs, Sam doesn’t weigh anything in his arms and they’re three steps from the ER entrance, “Besides that sign says ‘walk-ins welcome’ and you can’t walk in.”

Sam just groans, whether it’s out of pain or because of the joke, Steve isn’t sure. 

“Hi ma’am,” Steve greets the nurse sitting at the registration desk, “my friend here sprained his ankle.” 

The nurse’s eyes widen at him and Sam’s sight. It’s either because she recognizes Captain America and Falcon, or because of the bridal carry. He’s not sure yet. 

“Uh,” She looks down at Sam, then back up at Steve, “just fill this clipboard out and we’ll be right out for you.” She hands Steve a clipboard, not breaking contact with his face. 

Steve takes the board, smiling sweetly at her, “Thank you, ma’am.”

He sets Sam down gently into one of the seats in the empty waiting room, placing the clipboard in her lap. 

“I think you broke her,” Sam takes the clipboard, and starts filling out the forms with the pen chained to it, “she’s probably Snapchatting all her friends about this wonderful occasion.”

Steve just leans back in the chair, crossing his arms over his chest, “Not my fault I’m memorable. You’re the one that twisted your ankle.” The waiting room is empty, which Steve would usually consider odd but it’s just after noon on a weekday. 

“It’s not twisted,” Sam almost whines, “it’s just bruised.”

Steve looks down at the ankle. It’s swollen, the ankle socks he’s wearing looks tight against the skin, “I think it may even be a little bit more than twisted.”

They fall into a silence as Sam continues to scratch away at the paperwork, thankfully remembering all his identification numbers since both of them left their wallets down the street at Steve’s apartment. 

The nurse walks over to them both, pushing a wheelchair in front of her, “Captain, Falcon, we have a room ready for you.”

“No need to call me Falcon,” Sam waves off, flipping the packet of paperwork to the first page, “Sam is fine.”

Steve offers an arm for Sam to balance on while getting in the chair, feeling for him when he winces after putting some pressure on the ankle. He trails behind the nurse as she rolls Sam to his room, not wanting to get in her way. He has the utmost respect for nurses, his mom was one, he knew some during WWII, and he knows all the hard work they do on the daily. If they ever went on strike Steve would be right there with him, poster in hand on the picket line. 

They thank the nurse when she drops them off, Sam locking the wheels in place, Steve leaning against the counter. They’re in a small triage room, not the curtained areas people typically get. The benefits of being recognizable.

“If I had come alone I think I’d still be in the waiting room,” Sam muses, eyes scanning the room, “It’s nice that people don’t automatically recognize me as Falcon without you or Tony, hell sometimes Natasha if she’s got her hair red, but sometimes I’d like those perks, ya know?” Sam shrugs, fingers tapping against the pleather armrests on the chair. 

Steve nods, he gets it, “Next time you want me to go to the doctor with you, or stand in line at the DMV, just let me know.” It’s not even a joke of an offer. He’s completely serious. He’d do anything to help make Sam’s life easier, lord knows he deals with too much shit on the daily. Ignorant idiots with their racist words and internet posts, Steve wants to sock all of them in the teeth.

Sam snorts, relaxing back as much as he in the wheelchair, “Captain America, everyone.”

There’s a quick knock on the door before it opens, a nurse in black scrubs comes in, looking down at a chart. 

“Wilson, Sam. In for a twisted ankle?”

Steve recognizes that voice. It’s the same one that teased him weeks ago. The voice that he’s been wanting to hear every single day he steps in the elevator. 

“Bucky?” Steve blurts, no longer leaning against the counter. The logical side of his brain knows he shouldn’t interrupt the care taking of his best friend, but he’s been wanting to see this guy for weeks now. A month, almost, and he’d just about given up. So sue him for getting overly excited and opening his big mouth.

Bucky just blinks, lips parted in surprise, similar to that day on the elevator. Steve likes that he can surprise a stoic looking man like Bucky. His hair is up in a ponytail this time, there’s about a thousand badges hanging off a lanyard that’s clipped to his scrub top, the most eye-catching having a large RN printed on it, and he’s got a bit of stubble speckling his face. Steve has the overwhelming desire to lick it.

“Captain-- Steve?”

“Hold on,” Sam says, looking between Steve and Bucky like they’re figments of his imagination, “ _this_ is Bucky? The guy from the elevator, that same Bucky?” 

Steve just nods. He’s not sure what to say. Sure he’s been wanting to see Bucky again, but he hadn’t exactly thought of what to say after the fact. How does he tell a guy he met in an elevator that he’d like to maybe go out to dinner with him? He knows people do stuff like that all the time, but that’s just not his style. Especially in front of Sam, the guy that encourages him to get out more. His literal and metaphorical wing man. 

“Guy from the elevator,” Bucky repeats, obviously still shocked at this act of serendipity, “yeah, guess that’s me.” He looks away from Steve and down at Sam, eyes blinking like he had to remind himself he’s still at work, “I’m also the one that’s going to check out your ankle.”

Sam looks down at his foot like it personally offended him, “It’s a worthless joint, if you ask me.”

Bucky chuckles, and Steve’s wanted to hear that sound, too, “Not the most useless thing ever, just, uh, poorly designed.” He kneels at Sam’s feet, surveying the injury, “How’d this happen?”

Steve and Sam exchange a look, “We ran after a dog that took off from its owner,” Steve answers, “Sam didn’t expect the dog’s leash to get tangled around his legs.” Typically, he doesn’t like lying, but he didn’t want too much of Sam’s ego to get bruised. Saying it happened because they raced each other and Sam lost his footing? That’s embarrassing for the both of them. They’re supposed to uphold the values and skill of elite military men, not trip over uneven concrete.

“Sucks being a good person, doesn’t it?” Bucky asks Sam, “I’m going to take the shoe off, it’s going to hurt a little.”

“I’m the goddamn Falcon,” Sam claims, tensing up in preparation for the pain, “I can deal with a sprained ankle.”

Steve snorts, relaxing against the counter, “I can hold your hand if you want.”

“Fuck you, man.” Sam grits out as Bucky removes the sneaker and sock.

Bucky makes quick work of assessing Sam’s injury, asking the right questions, and promising to come back quickly with a sleeve and splint. Steve lets himself bleed into the background, not wanting to get in the way of Bucky’s job or Sam’s treatment. This way he can also take a good look at Bucky. The wavy hair, the sharp jaw, arms thick with muscle. Steve wonders what it’s like to be held by them.

“Okay,” Bucky says, pushing himself off the floor with leverage from the counter, “let me go get a prescription written up and some stuff for the brace.” He looks from Sam to Steve, “Be right back.”

The door shuts gently behind Bucky and Steve just stares at it. Not sure how to navigate from here.

“Go get Elevator Man!” Sam says, waving at the door, “He’s probably too embarrassed to talk to you with me here.”

Steve’s brain buffers for a moment before he rushes out of the room, collecting himself when an LVN raises her eyebrow at him.

“Bucky,” Steve calls, jogging slightly to catch up with him. He considers, for a moment, starting off with a question about Sam’s treatment and then discards that idea. 

Bucky stops, turning around and tucking the chart under his arm. 

“I’ve, uh, been taking the elevator hoping to see you again.” Steve says, getting to the point and hoping he doesn’t come off as creepy. It’s been awhile since he had to make the first move. Usually people come up to him in bars, or on the street, if he’s being honest he’s a little spoiled because of it. 

“Oh yeah?” Bucky asks, a small grin on his face, “Well, I’ve been taking the stairs to avoid you.”

Steve’s stomach drops, “Oh, well,” he takes a step back, “don’t let me bother you at work then.” He’s familiar with rejection from his pre-serum days. The only woman nice enough to give him the time of day was Peggy. He’s read enough blog posts and seen enough news that men harassing women at work these days is through the roof. While Bucky isn’t a woman, Steve owes him the same respect. 

“Not like that,” Bucky stops him from turning with a hand on his elbow, “it’s kinda embarrassing to flirt with a national icon when you don’t know you're flirting with a national icon. Especially, when I’m pretty sure you get crap like that all the time.” He shrugs, “I’m not usually that forward, either.”

It’s a little heart-warming that Bucky thought about that, not many people do. People seem to forget that Steve is _Steve_ rather than just Captain America.

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, ducking his head and kicking at something that isn’t there, “but I liked it when you did it.” He shrugs once, “Especially cause you did it without knowing I was Captain America. And the forward-ness? That was nice, too.”

“Oh?” Bucky asks, his hand slides down Steve's elbow, fingers dancing over the vein in his arm, “Is that so?”

Bucky’s fingers are cold from the hospital, but that’s not why they send shivers down Steve’s spine.

The blush on Steve’s cheeks must be bright red because they feel hotter than lava, he looks up to meet Bucky’s eyes, they’re a dusty blue, “Yeah, wouldn’t mind going out on one of those dates you mentioned.”

A wide grin stretches across Bucky’s face. It looks genuine, “I get off in a couple hours, meet me in the lobby at eight?” Bucky’s fingers slow their dance until they’re barely touching Steve’s wrist. It’s erotic in the most delicate way. 

Steve nods, clearing his throat because he’s about to have the most embarrassing crack in his voice, “Eight is good, see you then.” 

Bucky takes a step back, pulling the chart from under his arm, “It’s a date.” He holds Steve’s gaze for another moment, before turning around and walking down the hallway.

If Steve stares at his ass it’s not his fault.

* * *

After Steve dropped Sam off at the Tower he hurried back to his apartment. It’s almost five and he doesn’t know what to wear. Hell, he’s still in the clothes he went running in. He probably smells like a moose, no offense to moose and their natural order. 

He decided not to mention the date to Sam or any of the other Avengers in the know about Elevator Guy. He’s not embarrassed of the date or embarrassed of going out with a man, none of that. Rather, he wants to keep a little something to himself. Everything about him is public knowledge, even now he tries to keep things private but tabloids manage a way to find out each and everything about him. 

So, he goes to his quiet apartment where he can hear his nervous heart beating loudly in his ears. 

The most important thing is a shower, Steve decides. He’s fine with settling on plain clothes so long as he smells good. Lest he make a smelly impression on Bucky. 

He sets the shower water to as hot as it can go, steam immediately filling up the bathroom and fogging over the mirror. It’s like his own personal sauna. He steps into the stall, sighing when the hot water touches his skin, closing his eyes to let the water rush over him like a rainfall. After a moment of being still under the water, letting himself breathe quietly and calm his nerves, he moves to quickly sud up and rinse off his hair. 

Steve takes a longer time washing his body, attempting to scrub away any potential grime that’s settled on his skin throughout the day. 

His hand, slick with soap and water, drifts down to his groin. He’s half hard with the idea of Bucky’s plush lips, a guilty feeling settling low in his belly for even thinking that way about a guy he just met. He doesn’t expect to get any tonight, it is their first date after all, but it’s been a minute since he’s cleaned the pipes. 

With slow movements, Steve begins to stroke his cock. His fingers are tight around the shaft as he pumps, hips making small thrusts into his fist. He closes his eyes, lips parting, hot water from the shower slipping in his mouth. He swallows around the thought of the wet heat of Bucky’s mouth, pretending that for a moment the hot water from the shower is instead lips, that his fingers rubbing at the head of his cock is a tongue. 

Steve forgores slow movements to fast and hard. He lets his head roll back, open mouth panting in the shower, abs burning at the strain of holding back his own orgasm. He squeezes a bit tighter and pumps once, twice, until he comes with a shout. The shower water washes everything away as he strokes his spent cock once more, feeling dirty yet satisfied at the same time. 

He stands under the water for a moment, breathing, relaxing his heart rate. Steve validates what he just did by claiming it was so he doesn’t get distracted on their date. If he’s already come once, then he shouldn’t need to again later, right?

Steve shrugs to himself, shutting off the water, even if that’s not how it works he still shouldn’t feel bad about what he did. The moral dilemma of jerking off to the idea of someone else without their knowledge is tabled for another day.

* * *

The lobby is empty when Steve goes down at 7.55PM on the dot. He sometimes wonders if anyone actually lives in his complex since he hardly sees his neighbors in the lobby. Then again, he’s never in the lobby during standard occupational rush hour.

He decided on a pair of dark-wash jeans, they’re bootcut but tight at the hips and thigh, with a baseball cap tucked into his back pocket. For a top, he went with a deep red henley from one of the nicer brands Pepper recommended for him. Clint once told him his shoulders looked amazing in it, and he figures if the romantic partner of Natasha would compliment his physique then he’d better be honored. He’s a little nervous about how casual he’s dressed, but he doesn’t have much variety to choose from. He also doesn’t know where they’re going or what they’re doing, so he felt like a button down and slacks would be too stuffy. What if they’re just going to the food truck market? He’d rather be underdressed than over, especially being Captain America and all. 

A wolf-whistle rings in the lobby from behind Steve, and he’s about to whip out the ‘sorry sir/ma’am but I’m not interested in a relationship, physical or otherwise, at the moment’, when he sees that it’s Bucky. 

And Bucky, a man that looked delectable in a pair of black scrubs, looks dangerously hot right now. It turns out, Steve realizes, that cleaning out the pipes before seeing Bucky was useless. If Bucky asked, Steve would get on his knees this very moment in the middle of the apartment’s lobby. 

He’s wearing a light grey v-neck shirt that looks so soft Steve wants to run his hands across it. The shirt clings to Bucky’s body like it was made for him, conforming to each and every muscular divot. His jeans are black and look almost wet, similar to his shirt, they’re tight along the lines of his body. Steve notices a difference in his left calf from his right, but ignores that piece of information to continue drooling at the man. 

“You clean up nice,” Bucky says as he steps up to Steve, breaching his bubble of personal space, “so far I’ve only seen you tired from saving the world and sweaty from chasing after a dog.” He hooks a finger into Steve’s jeans like he’s done it a million times before, “I like these.”

Steve feels his face warm with a blush and nudges Bucky’s boot with his own, “You look pretty nice, too. Can’t say I remember what you looked like during our first two conversations, but since you make scrubs look good it couldn’t have been too bad.”

Bucky snorts, rolling his eyes, and pushing against Steve’s shoulder with his hand, “Sweet talker, no wonder all the ladies swoon over you.”

Steve lets himself be pushed back a little, not that Bucky’s strength could ever put a dent in him, “The men too, don’t forget about all the swooning men.” 

“How could I ever forget?” Bucky asks, unhooking his finger from Steve’s belt loop, and taking a step back, “I’m one of those men! God bless America!”

Steve shakes his head, bumping his shoulder into Bucky’s, “Where’re we going? Lead the way.”

Bucky grins at Steve, all knowing but not revealing, “You’ll see.” Is all he says, nodding towards the door, “Our Lyft should be here soon, don’t want to miss that. You know how they love to cancel if you take one second too long.”

In all honesty, Steve doesn’t know. The entire time he’s been in this era he’s either taken public transportation, his own motorcycle, a Stark financed vehicle, or simply walked. He’s never had to order a car from his phone, nor has he wanted to. Yeah, the people in this complex know he lives here but there’s some sort of unspoken rule where they don’t tell the press. Car drivers that he doesn’t know? Likely to tell the press. So far, in the year or so that he’s resided here, he’s never had a press-related altercation. He’d like to keep it that way.

“Sorry,” Steve says, pulling the cap out of his back pocket, “gotta-” he gestures to nothing, not wanting to sound like a douche who thinks everyone on the street’s going to notice him. He’s a pretty average looking white male, he can blend in. 

Thankfully, he doesn’t have to explain.

“I get it,” Bucky walks to the door and holds it open for him, “don’t want people snooping where they don’t need to be.” They both step out into the humid night, sidewalk well lit, “I would be doing the whole sun glasses and hat thing, if I were in your position.”

That makes Steve pause and frown, turning to look at Bucky in the eyes, “You know if people see me, see _us_ , they might be inclined to dig into your life. Even if this doesn’t become a serious thing. I can understand if you don’t want to do this for that reason.” Steve tries to read Bucky’s face, secretly hoping that Bucky won’t mind. He doesn’t even know the guy and he’s already hoping, “No hard feelings.”

Bucky’s quiet for a moment, he purses his lips before shrugging one shoulder, “Let them. I got nothing to hide. Besides, I work at a hospital. They’re going to have a hell of time trying to ambush me in those walls.”

Steve feels relief wash over his body, it’s a bit concerning how into Bucky he already is. 

Before Steve can say anything a white Prius pulls into the loading zone of the apartment, honking twice before parking. 

They silently load into the car, sitting a socially acceptable distance apart from each other. The ride doesn’t take long, crossing them over the Manhattan Bridge and stopping in Greenwich. Steve’s familiar with the area, he’s run here before, but aside from that he’s not too sure what’s over here that people could go to at almost nine in the evening. 

He follows Bucky down the sidewalk into what he can only describe as a jazz bar. The room seems to be draped with red curtains and floral print wallpaper. A small stage is nestled into the red drapery, a lone woman playing an upbeat tune on a white piano. There’s small circle tables in the middle of the bar, each with two chairs and a small candle. Along the side there’s velvet lined booths, the fabric bright red like the rest of the bar. The decor looks like something straight out of the 1950’s, an era he was a few years short of living through, with some people dressed accordingly.

“I think I’m underdressed,” Steve tells Bucky, removing the hat from his head now that they’re in a dark place. Women have their hair in fantastic updos, their dresses tight at the bust and waist. Men are in button downs and slacks, their shoes shining so bright even the dim light reflects off them. 

Bucky tugs Steve by the belt loop again, this time prompting him to follow him, “Nah, you’re just fine, there’s no dress code here.”

They follow the hostess to one of the plush booths, Steve sliding in first and Bucky following. Bucky rests his arm along the back of the booth, fingers lightly touching the nape of Steve’s neck. It sends shivers down his spine. 

“Can I get you anything to drink?” She asks, setting a leather lined menu on their table.

“Negroni for me,” Bucky replies, a flirtatious little smile on his lips, “you?”

Steve quickly scans the menu, “Just an old fashioned, thanks.”

She nods, smiling sweetly at them, before turning on her heel back the way they came, her circle skirt moving dramatically.

“You really like to stick with your theme, Steve.” Bucky has to lean into Steve to talk over the piano, his breath hot on Steve’s neck, “Getting an old fashioned, I mean.”

Steve just shrugs and settles into both the booth and Bucky, “Sue me, I like whiskey, besides you’re the one that brought me to a 50’s jazz club.” 

“You’re not wrong,” Bucky chuckles, “but what can I say, I’m a sucker for old things.”

Steve looks over at Bucky, their noses mere inches apart, and raises an eyebrow, “Old stuff, huh?”

“Mmhmm,” Bucky grins, “ain’t no twenty one year old gonna whisk me away.”

Steve snorts, looking back at the pianist and ignoring Bucky’s tempting lips, “So what made you get into nursing?” He’s genuinely curious, actually wanting to know rather than using the question as an icebreaker. His mom was a nurse, after all. 

“I was in the army for a bit,” Bucky says, like a confession, “and got into medicine while I was there. Mostly traumas, quick and dirty triage type stuff. So when I got out I already had the know-how, I had some of the college done, figured there was no better time like the present to spend government money on a RN cert.”

Steve doesn’t ask about the army, it’s not a first date kind of question, “My mom was a nurse,” he says instead, “I used to want to be one. Loved watching her work through medical problems and outsmart doctors.” He has fond memories of her at work, her firecracker attitude definitely passed down.

“How come you don’t try going into medicine?” Bucky asks, leaning back a little so they can conversate without being close enough to kiss, “I bet any hospital would be happy to have Captain America on their team.”

“I never thought about it,” Steve says, he looks over at Bucky before averting his eyes, “besides, national security seems to need my skills more than any hospital.” There’s a slightly bitter taste in his mouth at the idea that he’ll be the government’s weapon for as long as he’s alive. Retirement? Unlikely. He doesn’t even know how aging works with the serum in his veins, nobody does.

Bucky’s fingers tap the nape of his neck twice, “Well, if you ever want to follow me around work I’ll gladly break HIPPA for you.” 

It’s a joke, Steve knows it, but the sentiment is nice. He appreciates the offer.

A waiter comes back with their drinks on a metal tray. He places two napkins down, first setting Steve’s old fashioned in front of him and then Bucky’s negroni. The man’s dressed smartly, in a tight fitting white button down and a grey vest. He leans his hip against the table, arms crossed over his chest, eyes only for Bucky, “Can I get you anything else?”

Bucky looks up at the man, taking a sip of his drink, “No thanks, doll.” His tone is flirtatious and Steve averts his eyes, looking back at the pianist. He subconsciously sits forward, moving away from Bucky’s arm and the fingers that touch his neck. 

“Well,” The guy says, tapping Bucky’s hand with his finger, “let me know if that changes.” And walks off.

“Come back here,” Bucky tugs on the collar of his shirt, “where’d you go?”

Steve sighs, leaning back, “Look,” he thinks over his words, not wanting to sound harsh or judgemental or needy. He decides to look over at Bucky, wanting to be sincere and upfront with his feelings. See, Sam, he listens, “I haven’t been in the dating scene in... a long time. I haven’t been on an actual date since before I went into the ocean. So,” He takes a deep breath, “I don’t want to be some bucket-list fuck or date. I don’t care if you do this often, I’m not here to shame you, and I know we just met. But, I’d like for this to be more than something fun that passes the time.”

A moment passes and Bucky smiles at him softly.

“You’re not a bucket list fuck,” Bucky chuckles, cupping Steve’s face gently in his hands, the calouses on his palms rough against Steve’s cheeks, his fingers wet from the condensation on his glass, “I wasn’t even _planning_ on fucking you until our third date cause I was worried this would happen. I’m a flirtatious guy, can’t help it since I’m a Libra rising, but it’s not real unless it’s directed at you. Got it?”

Steve flushes at the idea that Bucky planned on when they were going to have sex, and nods. While Bucky can’t help his flirtatiousness because of whatever the hell, he can’t help his insecurities. He was small and skinny longer than he’s been in this Adonis body. His mentality is still of that guy, the one that couldn’t catch a wandering eye, that got all his dates based on personality. 

“I got it, sorry,” He shrugs, “still feel like that scrawny kid, ya know?” 

Bucky presses a kiss to his nose, Steve’s heart jumps in surprise, “I would have definitely fallen for you when you were smaller. I’m not the kinda’ guy to date on looks alone. Sleeping around? Yeah. But dates? All personality, baby. Next time you get caught up in your head about why we’re on this date, or any other dates, let me know so I can bring you out to reality.” 

Steve immediately misses the warmth of Bucky’s hands when he removes them, but opts for leaning back into Bucky instead. He picks up his drink, appreciating the burn of whiskey in his throat, “So, third date huh?”

He can feel Bucky’s chuckle before he can hear it over the pianist, “That’s the goal, long as you consent to it.”

Steve shrugs, “I can be very enthusiastic about saying ‘yes’.”

* * *

Their date was spectacular. It was intimate in the dim lights of the club, with music straight out of his era, and whiskey so good it burned his throat with every swallow. 

Their date was everything Steve would have wanted and more. During the lull of the music they chatted about goals and ambitions, about family and friends. He learned that Bucky’s actually from Indiana, that he has living parents and a younger sister, and that they get together every Independence Day. He learned that he did two tours overseas, straight out of high school, and was injured which forced him to come back. He also learned that Bucky loves cherries more than anything, has a small army of plants in his apartment, and volunteers at animal shelters in place of getting his own pet. 

But this. 

This is more than Steve could ask for.

He has Bucky pinned against his body and the hallway wall, this time it’s Bucky’s face in his hands. He can feel the rough pricks of stubble under his fingers, his cheekbones sharp and defined. 

They started out with small pecks, experimental almost, figuring out how their lips fit against each other. Little pecks turned into long kisses. Familiarity found, Bucky’s hands grabbing at his hips like if he let go Steve would disappear.

Steve licks at the seam of Bucky’s lips, asking if this is fine, if he can take them one step further. With a small grunt Bucky opens up, his tongue meeting Steve’s in a sloppy kiss. He’s well aware that they’re in the hallway of Bucky’s floor, that their kissing is emitting embarrassing wet sounds, but he couldn’t give a damn. 

He pulls back just for a moment, his eyes meeting Bucky’s grey, pupils blown wide. With his hands on Bucky’s face he tilts him to the side, a deeper angle, and continues where he left off. Their noses brush, now Bucky’s hands move up his abdomen over his shirt, fingers now exploring the expanse of muscle covered by fabric. 

They kiss for a couple moments more, tongues brushing against each other, teeth clacking at least once, before Steve pulls back. He completely steps away from Bucky, hands falling down to his shoulders, and takes in a deep breath. 

Bucky looks beautiful and debauched. His lips are bruised red, there’s a flush high on his cheeks, and his chest is heaving from his deep panting. Steve wants nothing more than to dive back in, get lost in the ocean that is Bucky’s kisses and Bucky’s touch. But he refrains. He is a gentleman. 

“Fuck,” Bucky exhales, a hands moving up to hold Steve’s wrists where they rest on his shoulders, “you been practising that?”

Steve laughs, he’s not breathless but that’s all serum, “No, but it helps having a good partner.” 

“I’d ask you to come inside,” Bucky thumbs rub at the pulse point of Steve’s wrists, “but honestly I don’t think I’d be able to hold myself back.”

A shiver runs down Steve’s spine straight to his groin, “I wouldn’t stop you,” Steve confesses, “but I want to take this a pace slower.” He brings a hand back up to Bucky’s face, pressing a thumb to Bucky’s lips, his fingers curling around Bucky’s chin and jaw, “I want to savor this.”

Bucky’s lips part, his eyes are wide, and he nods, “Me too.”

Steve presses down on Bucky’s lips for a moment, applying the barest amount of pressure before completely pulling away. He puts a good two feet between them, hands going into the pockets of his jeans, “I had a good night.” He says instead of asking Bucky to take him to bed, “A really good night.”

Bucky’s still against the wall with wide eyes and parted lips, breathing barely steadying, “Me too,” he repeats, “best date I had in years if we’re being honest.”

The heat in Steve’s groin subsides for a warmth in his belly, it’s happiness instead of heady want, “Glad to hear it, the next time we’re both off we should do this again. Maybe coffee, though.”

Bucky snorts, pushing himself away from the wall into a more dignified stance, “As if the daylight hours could prevent this from happening again.”

Steve rolls his eyes, “I couldn’t resist your lips if I tried, but that’s not why I want to do coffee instead.” He shrugs his shoulders, looking down at the carpet flooring, “I want to be able to hear more about you without having to yell over music or rowdy people.” He learned a little about Bucky, about his past, but that’s just the tip of the iceberg. He wants to learn more, he wants to learn _everything_.

“I have Saturday morning off,” Bucky offers, a small smile on his lips, “we could do it then.”

Saturday is two days away, Steve can wait that long, “Meet in the lobby? Ten-ish?” He suppresses the giddiness bubbling to the surface, suppresses the want to run down the hallway and yell about scoring another date with one Bucky Barnes. 

“It’s a date,” Bucky grins, the same answer he gave to Steve’s first proposition. Bucky takes a step into Steve, studying his features before pressing a chaste kiss to the top of Steve’s cheek. He pulls away, an almost shy smile on his lips where the grin once was, “See you soon.”

Steve watches as Bucky steps back and turns around to fish a key out of his pocket, opening the door to his apartment. He offers a small wave, knowing there’s a goofy smile on his face, and waits until Bucky’s closed the door behind himself before letting the smile completely take over his face. 

He has another date with James Buchanan Barnes. He also has his phone number saved in his contacts, Bucky sneakily adding it with the double pink heart emoji next to it. And, the icing on the cake, he has the memory of Bucky’s tongue caressing the inside of his mouth to keep him warm the next to nights. 

Steve scored. He scored big time.

* * *

**Steve: Thanks for taking me to the jazz club. We’ll have to go next time they have a themed night.**

**Bucky: NP! I had a great time tonight :) cant wait to see u saturday**

* * *

**Bucky: cant stop thinking about r kiss**

* * *

Admitably, Steve had been daydreaming on the couch. Head in his hand, eyes unfocused, not expecting anyone at his door. Specifically, he was daydreaming about kissing Bucky again. Because damn, that was quite the kiss. 

Three loud bangs at his door make him jump up off the couch, standing in a fighter’s stance for a moment before realizing if HYDRA or some criminal organization was trying to kill him they wouldn’t announce themselves ahead of time. 

“Steve!” three more bangs, “Open up Steve, we have wine!”

He sighs at the sound of Wanda’s voice. He loves the kid, don’t get him wrong, but he kinda wanted to sit in the dark of his apartment and daydream about red lips and brown hair. Sue him. 

Steve opens the door, raising his eyebrow at the sight of Wanda and Natasha, both of them double fisting bottles of wine, “Wanda, can you even drink yet?”

She rolls her kohl lined eyes, pushing past Steve into his apartment, “I’ve been legal for a few years now, _dad_. Now, I heard you had a date,” she settles on his couch like a defiant kitten, her grey shawl so long it spills on the floor, “tell me everything.”

He steps to the side to let Natasha in, but begrudgingly, “Kids don’t usually want to hear about their parent’s dates.” He closes the door behind him, crossing his arms to stare at the two women colonizing his couch. 

Natasha pulls the cork off one of her bottles, settled in with his throw blanket over her lap, “These kids don’t give a single damn,” she takes a swig, “so spill the deets.” They both know she can’t get drunk of a bottle of wine, so this has become a social hour.

Steve takes one of their bottles as a form of payment for this occasion and plops himself in an armchair. He uses the multi-tool he always keeps on his belt to take the cork off, taking a swig and frowning at the flavor, he’s more of a sour wine kinda’ guy. He looks up at the ceiling and sighs, “It was pretty great.”

Wanda giggles, leaning over the couch arm to get closer to Steve, “Did you,” she wiggles her eyebrows, “you know?”

Natasha snorts, “Steve is too much of a gentleman to fuck on the first date, come on Wanda,” She points at her with her free hand, “I taught you to be a better spy.”

Steve tries to will down the flush, “No,” he stresses, “we did not have sex last night. We just,” he can’t help the flush that burns his cheeks, “we just kind of made out in his hallway.”

Natasha wolf whistles, “Tongue or no tongue? It’s not a true sloppy first date makeout if there’s no tongue.”

He can see the grin stretch across Wanda’s face as he doesn’t answer. She almost looks deadly, like a shark. He didn’t think that expression could come from a young girl like her. Then again, she’s not as young as he keeps projecting on to her.

He takes a few gulps of wine, like Natasha, it won’t do anything to him but it’s a good form of stalling, “Tongue,” Steve finally answers, half the bottle of Moscato gone, “lots and lots of tongue.” He almost says it like he’s ashamed, but he’s really not. He would kiss Bucky again, right now, in the hallway if given the chance.

Wanda screams, now jumping on his couch, “Steve! You slut!” She’s sure to not spill any wine but keeps jumping, chanting, “Steve’s a slut!” Over and over again until Steve’s red with embarrassment and Natasha’s cheeks are flushed from full body laughing. He guesses his embarrassment is worth seeing Natasha’s unfiltered smile. 

“How much did she have to drink before you came over?” Steve asks Natasha, ignoring Wanda’s chanting, momentarily wondering if the neighbors can hear her. 

Natasha looks over at Steve, taking in a deep breath to calm her giggle fit, “I think a whole box of crappy wine.” She shrugs, drinking from her own bottle, “She could walk, that’s sober enough for me.”

Wanda calms down, jumping once more but this time she lands on her butt. Not a drop of wine on her clothes or the couch, “Ah,” She sighs, almost dreamy, “to have a beautiful boy kissing you with tongue.”

Steve raises an eyebrow, flicking his eyes from Wanda to Natasha and back, “How do you know he’s beautiful?” He truly hopes they did not infringe on the privacy of Bucky, but he knows better than to hope when his best friends are spies that are overly invested in his life.

Wanda looks over to Natasha, her eyes wide, she brings the bottle to her lips and drinks. She’s not talking. 

“Clint did it,” Natasha says simply, “and I did not exactly oppose it.”

Steve groans, letting his head fall back, “All of you are horrible. Why couldn’t you wait until I introduced him to everyone?” 

“Curiosity killed the cat,” Wanda says simply, as if that’s a justification for looking someone up in a government database just so they could know how he looks. 

“And satisfaction brought it back,” Natasha finishes, he can hear them clinking their bottles together, obviously pleased with themselves.

“Horrible,” Steve mutters, “absolutely horrible.”

* * *

**Bucky: Dodgers or Yankees**

**Steve: Dodgers. Hands down.**

**Bucky: Heathen**

**Steve: I think you meant to say “oldest fan alive”.**

**Bucky: More like oldest TRAITOR alive NYC deserves better**

* * *

“Do you like it?” Bucky asks, bringing the pale yellow metal thermos he brought with him to his lips.

They’re on their second date at a small cafe fifteen minutes from their apartment. Bucky’s in a baggy red hoodie despite the summer temperatures outside, his hair loose around his shoulders, small circles under his eyes from late nights at work. Steve is dressed casual as usual, but with the addition of his blue baseball cap. They’ve been here over an hour, mindlessly chatting about everything that comes to mind, and Steve can’t help but be a little bit distracted by the wet sheen of sipped coffee on Bucky’s lips. 

He wants to lick it off.

That being said, Steve isn’t exactly sure what Bucky’s referring to with his question, so he just assumes the question is about the coffee, “It tastes good, I’ve never been here before--”

“No, no,” Bucky cuts him off shaking his head, loose hair bouncing with the movements, “do you like being,” he lowers his voice, leaning toward Steve, “Captain America?”

“Oh,” Steve will admit that for a moment he’s pretty dumbfound, he doesn’t know how they got from talking about coffee beans to his current occupation. He’s also never been asked that. Most people just assume he likes being Captain America, he _did_ essentially sign up for the position, “I don’t know,” he frowns, thinking, “I like saving people, I like protecting people, but I’m tired all the time. My body is made to fight, it’s borderline indestructible, so lulls in fighting make me more confused than anything.”

Bucky nods, pursing his lips, “It seems hard, not just the fighting and saving the war thing, but the out-living everyone you knew thing and the accidental celebrity thing.” He shrugs, taking another drink of his coffee, “The media just makes it sound like you’re in love with being,” he waves with his free hand, “ _him_ and I wanted to know the truth.”

Steve chuckles, it’s not meant to be humorous but that separation of Captain America and Steve Rogers? It’s something he forces himself to do every damn day. “My PR team doesn’t let me be depressed on national television, unfortunately. All roses and sunshine, none of the gritty shit that comes with being a lab rat or a war survivor.” Like nightmares, his brain supplies, or chronic insomnia. 

“Well,” Bucky places his hand over Steve’s where it’s wrapped around his mug, “none of that roses and sunshine with me, got it?” He shrugs a shoulder, hair flowing with the movement, “I’m a war survivor too, I understand the drama that comes with it because I got it too.”

“Thanks,” Steve smiles gently at Bucky, “that means a lot, really.” He can talk about his demons, about the stuff he deals with, to his teammates. He can talk about any of this to Sam, a trained and professional therapist. But he doesn’t want to burden them, nor does he want them to feel like the only reason Steve talks with them is to use them as a sounding board. Especially Sam. He has a therapist for that reason, but this? Bucky offering an ear, offering his experience with this kinda stuff? It’s more than Steve could ask for. 

“Same goes to you,” Steve continues, “if you ever have a bad night, or just need to get something off your chest, talk to me. Or call me, hell, text me. Unless I’m on a mission, or at therapy I’m pretty available.” 

Bucky’s smile mirrors Steve’s, he taps Steve’s hand with his fingers, one by one, “Sometimes the most fucked up people end up being the ones with the best advice.”

Steve snorts, rolling his eyes, “Is that implying that we’re two of the most fucked up people?” He knows that’s true on his end, but he thinks he may know some people more fucked up than Bucky. Granted, he doesn’t know the deep end of Bucky’s demons. 

“Yep,” he pops his lips at the ‘p’, “a match made in heaven, if you will.” 

“Glad God got something right then,” Steve grins, not caring that they’re in a moderately busy cafe as he leans over to peck Bucky on the nose before dropping back in his seat, “cause lord knows he slacked on other things.”

A wide smile stretches across Bucky’s face, he pulls his hand away from Steve’s to stretch his arm, “Yeah,” he says, finishing the stretch, “like who decided coffinfish were a good idea?”

“Coffinfish?” Steve’s almost certain those don’t exist.

“They’re angry looking fish that look like a dog toy gone horribly wrong,” He dramatically shivers as if the idea of that fish is too much for him to handle, “absolutely horrible creatures.”

Steve snorts, then bursts out laughing, head thrown back and joyous. His body is completely zinging with happiness and serotonin. Bucky’s face lights up with a wide, toothy smile. Obviously happy with Steve’s reaction. 

“Coffinfish,” Bucky continues, pulling out his phone.

Steve’s only half listening at this point. A little, maybe a lot, enamored at Bucky breaking into in-depth conversation about this fish. It’s cute, it’s impressive, and Steve could listen to Bucky’s random knowledge about a topic all day. 

Is he in too deep a bit too soon? Yes, definitely yes. But is that a bad thing? That Steve feels warmth and happiness for a guy he just met? It’s reckless, he doesn’t know but the tip of the iceberg about Bucky, but it’s also the first non-work related relationship he’s had in a long time. Sam was last time he connected with someone that he wasn’t introduced to via Avengers or SHIELD, but that was years ago. 

So, yes. It is too soon to be enamored. Yes, Steve should reel back these feelings before he gets hurt. But he’s allowed to have fun with his heart, and as long as he doesn’t say anything stupid before the appropriate time arises he’ll be fine. 

For now, he’s going to ignore the moral dilemma of having a pretty big crush on a guy he just met and instead is going to pay attention to said guy. Because he’s cute, and because Steve wants to know more about this damn coffinfish.

* * *

**Bucky: I got this weekend off!**

**Steve: I’m glad to hear it. Do you have any plans?**

**Bucky: Date with u. Duh (so long as ur free that is)**

**Steve: There’s no planned national crisis that I know of. I’m all yours.**

**Bucky: I picked the place the first time... and the time after that. Ur turn**

**Steve: I can make a mean New York strip. Want to come over to mine?**

**Bucky: Only took you long enough to invite me to urs :P Time? I’ll bring the beer**

**Steve: 7PM?**

**Bucky: Perfect :)**

* * *

His apartment smells wonderful. Potatoes, asparagus, and brussel sprouts are kept warm in his oven, the steak seasoning/olive oil marinade wafting through the house. The steaks are in his fridge, seasoned and ready to be cooked as desired. Music is playing low throughout the apartment, a record spinning away on the turntable. He didn’t go as far as to pull out the candles, but the lights in his apartment are one setting lower than usual. 

Steve has zero expectations about tonight. He remembers Bucky joking about his three date rule, but Steve’s not about to be a douche and expect that. Would he like to have sex with Bucky? Yes. Are there lube and condoms in his bedside drawer? Of course. Did he clean himself up in hopes to bottom? Well, that’s his own business isn’t it. He hasn’t had sex with a person in a very long time, so long ago that he’s worried if him and Bucky get up to it tonight he might come in two seconds or less. Super Serum strength nowhere to be found when it comes to, well, _coming_.

Before Steve can get lost in that thought process, there’s three quick knocks on the door. His stomach flips out of excitement, anticipation, nervousness. So many emotions he can’t exactly compartmentalize them, sorry Fury. 

He walks over to the door, smoothing down the wine colored button down he put on, and taking a deep breath before opening it. On the other side Bucky looks more attractive than Steve’s ever seen him. He’s wearing a form fitting white button down, the top buttons open to show off his chest, tight black slacks, and the shiniest boots Steve’s ever seen. Steve’s mouth practically waters at the sight of him. 

Bucky must be in a similar state of shock, his lips are parted and eyes wide. For a moment he looks like he stopped breathing, and then he walks toward Steve with purpose, hands coming up to Steve’s face as he pushes him inside his apartment. 

Steve follows his lead, pushing the door closed behind them while trying to keep his mouth attached to Bucky’s. He ends up with his back against the foyer wall, hands pulling Bucky’s hips in close as Bucky leaves open mouthed kisses down his neck. 

“Buck,” He pants, resisting the urge to grind into Bucky’s leg, “you’re killing me Buck.”

Bucky chuckles, and Steve can feel the hot breath on his neck, “Want me to stop?” 

Steve shakes his head, pulling Bucky in closer, “No, but if you don’t stop I can’t promise we won’t end up in my bedroom.”

That makes Bucky look up, their eyes meeting, “Really? I mean--” he clears his throat, hands sliding down Steve’s chest until the rest at the jut of his hips, “I don’t want you to think you’re just a fuck for the books, if we have to wait until you realize I’m in this for real we can.”

“I’m in this for real, too,” Steve says gently, mirroring Bucky’s words, “and I want you. You make me crazy, Buck. Especially looking like this,” he pinches at Bucky’s shirt, “what other reaction did you think I’d have with you showing up in this?”

The grin on Bucky’s face is blinding, he runs his nose down Steve’s cheek, biting at his jaw, “Don’t know, Stevie, but I was hoping it was of the jumping your bones variety.” 

A moan slips out of Steve’s lips at the bite. Satisfied, Bucky does it again, this time adding a little more pressure. 

Steve’s hips jerk up into Bucky’s and he growls, pushing Bucky off so he can grab his hand, “I need you to fuck me right now.” He tells Bucky, any illusion of prudence or bashfulness gone from Steve. 

Bucky just nods, a bit dumbfounded at Steve’s honesty. 

Thankfully, Steve’s apartment isn’t huge at all and they’re in his room in seconds. For a moment, they’re both pulling at each other’s clothes. Buttons on shirts not becoming undone, shoes awkwardly being kicked off. Steve chuckles at his usually nimble fingers tripping over the small, plastic buttons of Bucky’s shirt. 

“I swear I’m better at this,” Bucky mutters, giving up at Steve shirt, and going for the belt, “but your shirt is being stupid.”

“My shirt?” Steve raises an eyebrow, motioning at the lack of buttons he was able to undo, “Your shirt is being equally as dumb. How about we undress ourselves? Get to the fun part much quicker that way.”

Bucky drops Steve’s belt like it was burning his hands and begins to quickly take off his own clothes. Despite Bucky’s lack of genetically modified abilities, Steve’s having to rush to keep up, fumbling with his own clothes out of excitement. 

Finally, they’re both blissfully naked and Steve has to take a moment because this-- this is new. 

Bucky’s skin is beautifully tanned, Steve recalls Bucky mentioning sunbathing in his apartment, and muscular. Not so much that it’s off putting, but enough that Steve knows Bucky can hold his own. His cock is curved up out of a curly web of brown hair and Steve wants to taste it. But that’s not what’s new. Bucky’s left leg, from the shin down, is a sleek metallic prosthetic. Steve’s never been one for observation outside of the obvious so maybe it’s why he never noticed it before, but this is new.

“I didn’t want to say anything about it before and it change your perspective of me,” Bucky says, as if he read Steve’s mind, he crosses his arms over his chest, “I’m more than my disability, ya know?”

“You’re beautiful,” Steve breathes, taking a step forward to close the space between them, “if you’re comfortable with telling me, I’d like to know more later.” He presses kisses to the side of Bucky’s face making his way down, “but for now I’d like to do this.” He drops to his knees, Bucky’s cock at eyesight, “If that’s okay.”

Bucky braces a hand on Steve’s shoulder, nodding rapidly, “More than okay, Steve, God damn.”

Steve grins, hands on Bucky’s hips both to stabilize himself and Bucky, and curiously kitten licks the head of his cock. It’s salty, nothing spectacular, but it’s _Bucky’s_. He takes the head in his mouth, relishing in the sounds coming from Bucky above, before hollowing his cheeks to slide down further. 

He learned, back during the war, that the serum also removed his gag reflex. It’s a handy trick, especially with someone larger than average like Bucky. His nose is pressed up against Bucky’s groin and he looks up, using his hands to push Bucky’s hips forward. 

“Oh god, Steve,” Bucky moans, getting the picture. He widens his stance a little, hands digging into Steve’s shoulders, and slowly shifts his hips forward.

Steve should be choking on this. He should absolutely be gagging with Bucky’s cock pushing at the back of his throat, but instead he just takes it like a champ. He loves the heady, heavy feeling of having another man in his mouth. How full he feels, how _fulfilled_ he feels that he can completely undo someone via mouth alone. His own cock is hard and he pulls a hand away from Bucky’s hips to jerk himself off, it’s a little dry, a little rough, but with the unrelenting thrusting coming from Bucky in his mouth, he’ll take it.

“Steve,” Bucky pants, still thrusting, “don’t wanna’ come like this. Want to be in you.”

It’s Steve this time that groans, he carefully pulls off of Bucky, wondering how debauched he looks from Bucky’s eyes, maybe next time they’ll do this in front of a mirror, “I want that too,” his hand is still on his cock, “want that so much.”

Bucky pulls him up by the shoulder, kissing him once more, “How do you want to do it?” he grins, “Bottom’s choice.”

Steve snorts, rolling his eyes, he steers Bucky towards the bed, mindful of his prosthetic, and gently pushes him down, “I want to ride you.”

“Okay,” Bucky nods, he holds a finger up, “one moment.” Steve watches as Bucky undoes his prosthetic, dropping it off to the side of the bed, “Now resume.”

Steve goes into his bedside drawer, tossing the lube and a condom at Bucky before straddling the man. He runs his fingers down Bucky’s chest, fiddling with a nipple, liking the hitch in Bucky’s breath, “I may have played with myself a couple hours ago.” Steve confesses, he leans back a bit, rubbing Bucky’s cock between his ass.

The groan that Bucky emits is deep and rumbles through his chest, “Steve you’re going to give me a heart attack, I don’t feel like explaining to my coworkers why I needed medical attention naked in bed with Captain-freakin-America.”

“I’m always prepared, the Man With a Plan, remember?” Steve grins at Bucky, knowing full well it’s shit eating, but the grin turns into a moan when he feels the tip of Bucky’s now lubed finger push into him.

“Man With a Plan, huh?” He pushes into the first knuckle, “You plan out how we’d have sex, Stevie?”

Steve nods, his eyes closed. It feels wonderful having something that’s not his own fingers or a toy in him, but it’s also overwhelming. He hasn’t done this with another person in literally decades, so everything feels like the first time again. Just a thousand times better because he and Bucky know what they’re doing.

“Uh huh,” Steve nods, almost drunk on the feeling of Bucky slowly moving his finger in and out, starting to babble when Bucky adds a second, “just like this.” He rolls his body against Bucky’s fingers, “I can take you now, comeon Buck.”

Bucky rubs Steve’s belly with his free hand, “One more, baby, just for peace of mind.”

“You can’t hurt me,” Steve says, trying to convince him to just give it to him right now at this very moment, “plus I had a dildo the size of my fist in my ass earlier, no offence but your cock isn’t that girthy.”

Before Steve realizes it he’s being flipped over onto his back a skilled movement by Bucky. He opens his eyes surprised, looking up at Bucky whose looming over him, hair curtained around his face, left hand by his face on the bed for balance.

“That true, huh?” He adds a third finger, fingering him at what a normal person would find a punishing pace but Steve finds just perfect, “You gotta use a monster dick to get yourself off? Mine won’t be enough for you?”

Steve shakes his head, his hips rolling to meet the thrust of Bucky’s fingers, “No, just--” he moans when Bucky finds his prostate and taps against it, “--just wanted to be ready for you.”

Bucky humms, pressing down on Steve’s prostate a few more times before completely pulling out, he taps the side of Steve’s thigh, “Knees to your chest.”

Without even thinking about it, Steve follows his directions, holding his knees to his chest with both hands. He’s completely exposed to Bucky, and it should be embarrassing, but he’s more turned on than he’s ever been. 

Bucky lines himself up, using one of Steve’s ankles as another balance point instead of the bed, before pushing in with one quick thrust. 

Steve lets his knees fall, bracketing Bucky’s body with them, and leans up to kiss Bucky on the lips. He squeezes around Bucky’s cock, loving the feeling of being completely full. It’s a different full-ness than sucking dick gives him, comparing them would be like apples and oranges, but this is so much better. 

“Move, Buck,” Steve requests, encouraging Bucky by pulling him in with the heels of his feet.

Bucky breathes out, eyes closed, “It’s gonna be all over in a moment if you don’t let me breathe.”

Steve chuckles, the movement feeling odd with Bucky’s cock in him, but rubs Bucky’s back with his hands, “Take all the time you need.” To an extent, he’s being completely honest. He could stay like this, laid out on his back, with Bucky’s cock deep in him, for hours on end. 

After a moment of just breathing Bucky begins to move. At first it’s small movements, getting used to how their bodies are connected, and then with both hands on Steve’s chest he moves. Hips pulling out and thrusting back in, each time hitting Steve’s prostate. 

On his end, Steve is practically screaming Bucky’s name. He’s borderline over stimulated from the prostate massage earlier to the spot-on thrusts Bucky’s delivering, plus the fact this is the first time in a long time he did this with an actual person. He can feel his hands scraping up and down Bucky’s back, trying to pull him closer, deeper, with every thrust. 

“Gonna come, Buck,” Steve confesses, his hips meeting each of Bucky’s thrusts, “want you to come with me.”

With a nod of his head, Bucky grabs Steve’s dick with one hand, pulling three times before Steve comes with a loud grunt. Bucky pulls out and with the hand covered in Steve’s come, he jerks himself off, come spilling across Steve’s chest. 

Bucky falls forward with a quiet ‘oof’, both of them breathing hard in a post coital bliss. 

“That,” Steve begins, rubbing up and down Bucky’s back, “that was the best sex I’ve ever had in my life.”

Bucky chuckles, propping his head up on an elbow to look at Steve, “Yeah?”

Steve grins, blissed out and over the moon with endorphins, “Yeah, now you can tell your friends that you were Captain America’s best fuck.”

“I think,” Bucky humms, tracing Steve’s chest with his come-sticky hand, “I’m going to keep this to myself for a bit. Ya know, be Captain America’s personal plaything.”

“And only Captain America’s, right?” It was meant to be a joke, but instead it comes off as insecure. Steve wants to take it back, wants to reclaim the playful moment, when Bucky just rolls his eyes, gently slapping Steve’s chest. 

“Of course only yours,” He pushes his now-wild hair out of his eyes, “I can even change my Facebook status to ‘taken’ if that makes you happy.”

Steve smiles, wide and goofy, “No need to do all that,” he runs his hands through Bucky’s hair, loving the unruly mess its become, “what we should do is shower, because as romantic as this may seem it’s actually pretty gross. And then eat, because I’m hungry.”

“Shower together?” Bucky asks, a hopeful smile on his face.

Steve’s decided he loves that smile and wants to see it forever, “Shower together.”

Waiting for the shower water to heat up should be awkward. Steve’s abdomen is sticky with drying come, both of them are naked and a bit sweaty. It should be awkward, but instead Bucky is hugging him from behind, gently swaying them to the music that’s still playing in the apartment. It’s endearing and cute, two things that Steve forgot someone as attractive as Bucky could be. 

“How do you like the water?” Bucky asks while they wait, still swaying them both, mouth against Steve’s shoulder.

“Hot,” Steve replies, quickly, “never cold.” He shivers at the thought of being stuck in the ice. He was knocked out when the plane sank, from the impact, but the serum gave him consciousness. He’d wake up every now and then, lungs to the brim with ice and water, body too frozen to move. He remembers feeling himself choke on the water, not able to move out of the cockpit but also not able to force himself back to sleep. It was like clockwork, he’d wake up in a panic not sure what happened only to have to settle into the horrible feeling of dying once again. When he woke up the last time, in that room at SHIELD, he was certain it was some fantasy created by his tortured mind, but his fantasies knew better than to play the radio broadcast of a game he already knew the results to. 

“Because of what happened?” Bucky asks quietly, they’ve stopped swaying.

Steve just nods. He doesn’t want to say more, doesn’t want to ruin the moment, and thankfully Bucky gets it. 

“The water will always be hot when you’re with me,” Bucky says, beginning the swaying once more, this time it’s gentle rather than earlier’s playful, “don’t gotta worry about that.”

The water is hot when Steve tests it with his hand and he pats Bucky’s forearm, “Need help getting in?” He’s aware of Bucky’s missing prosthetic, the empty space behind his left leg, but he doesn’t want to assume that Bucky needs help over the lip of the tub. He’s ignorant to working with, living with, physical disabilities. It’s his fault he has to ask questions like this, but now he has something to read up on.

“Yeah,” Bucky sighs, pressing a kiss to Steve’s shoulder, “you get in first and I’ll use you as a balance.”

Steve nods before realizing, “I can carry you in, you weigh nothing with my strength,” he turns his head slightly to get a glimpse of Bucky’s eyes, “but I understand if you just want a helping hand.”

Bucky bites his lip, thinking. He nods, dramatically pointing his finger “You can be my noble steed into the depths of the shower.”

“If anyone was a noble steed it was you, seeing as I practically rode you into the mattress not even ten minutes ago,” Steve notes, shrugging, “just saying.”

“Idiot,” Bucky snorts, slapping Steve on the stomach, “how do we go about this?”

Steve taps the side of Bucky’s thighs with his hands, squatting a little to make it easier, “Jump up on my back, wrap your hands around my chest.”

“Steve, I swear to god if you drop me and I have to explain to my coworkers why I was naked in the shower with _Captain America_ you lose dick privileges.” 

“I won’t drop you,” Steve snorts, “you’ll weigh nothing, I’ve held up entire buildings on my back, Buck. Entire buildings.”

“If you say so,” Bucky mutters, before wrapping his arms around Steve’s chest and jumping. 

Steve catches Bucky’s legs, his right hand under Bucky’s right knee, and left hand higher upunder his thigh, and stands up straight, “See, no dropping.” He steps over the lip of the tub, their backs facing the stream of water, and slowly sets Bucky down, holding on the entire time.

“I want to wash your hair,” Steve explains when they face each other again, he runs his hands through the mop on Bucky’s head, chuckling, “I’ll make sure to get some detangler next time.”

Bucky grins, facing up to the spray, “I follow the Curly Girl Method, you know, so no sulfates.”

Steve makes a mental note to also research the Curly Girl Method and what exactly that entails, “No sulfates, got it.” He presses a kiss to each side of Bucky’s cheek, his forehead, the tip of his nose, and then finally his lips. He doesn’t want things to become heated, not that he doesn’t want to have sex with Bucky, he’ll have sex with the man anytime Bucky wants, but because he wants to keep things chaste. Bucky just hums into the kisses, his thumbs rubbing small circles into Steve’s hips, “Turn around for me?” Steve asks, almost whispers, not wanting to break the moment. 

Bucky complies, slowly, one hand against the wall of the shower to turn around. 

And Steve gasps. 

There’s red marks down Bucky’s back, not just two identical lines, but multiple. They’re an angry red, some with flecks of blood coming to the surface. He looks down at his own hands, shaking a little. He doesn’t know what he expected to see, the marks aren’t deep enough to have drawn blood from the skin, so his hands are clean. His nails are pristine per usual. He feels like they should be red. 

“What?” Bucky asks, looking over his shoulder, “I got something weird back there?” 

Steve shakes his head, “I hurt you, there’s-” he touches his fingertips to the angry skin, “there’s nail marks down your back. I hurt you.” He makes a vow, then and there, to never hurt Bucky again. Not even unintentionally. He didn’t realize how easily he could lose track of his abilities. 

“Steve,” Bucky sighs, like he’s missing the point, “you didn’t hurt me, they don’t hurt. Back scratches after sex is like,” he waves his hand around, “like a ‘you did bomb’ award. Like a ‘congrats you paid attention to what your partner likes’ achievement. It’s fine, _I’m_ fine, don’t freak out about it.”

He wants to freak out, he really and truly does, but he also trusts that Bucky isn’t lying to him. He trusts that Bucky isn’t covering up being in pain and making light of it. He trusts Bucky. 

“Okay,” Steve sighs, leaning forward to press a kiss at the top of Bucky’s back, “but let me know if I ever do anything to hurt you. Sometimes,” he holds Bucky’s hips gently, “sometimes I forget that I’m like this.” 

“Me too,” Bucky replies quietly, leaning into Steve’s kisses. He’s talking about something completely different, Steve knows this, but he appreciates that someone else understands. As much as he wishes Bucky didn’t have to understand, it’s nice knowing he’s not alone. 

Not wanting to get caught up in a wave of sadness, Steve reaches over for a pump of shampoo, “I’m pretty sure this has sulfates in it,” Steve apologises, running his sudsy fingers through Bucky’s hair, massaging his scalp with his short nails. 

“My hair will just have to deal with it,” Bucky sighs, now leaning his body against Steve’s, “‘s nice having someone else wash my hair.”

Steve chuckles, loving how relaxed Bucky is, “Anytime you need me to just let me know.”

“You don’t know what you’re offering, Steve,” Bucky mutters, his eyes are closed, water slipping between his lips as he talks, “I’m gonna call you every night for a hair pampering, and I have a multi-step routine going on.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” Steve says, moving Bucky so he can wash the shampoo out, “not only am I your noble steed but also your personal shampoo-ist.”

“Not to mention my personal Fleshlight,” Bucky grins, reaching a hand back to slap the side of Steve’s ass, “and what more could a man want than that.”

* * *

“It happened overseas,” Bucky begins, poking the bowl of half melted icecream with his spoon, “a freak accident with an IED that flipped over our Humvee.” 

They’re sitting at opposite ends of Steve’s couch, their legs tangled under the throw blanket, bowls of strawberry ice cream Steve bought for their date in their laps. He didn’t ask for an explanation, but there was a lull in the conversation and Bucky began. He almost doesn’t want to hear it, stories of war injuries a little too close to home, but he just listens. Bucky deserves this moment, and Steve’s honored to hear it. 

“We were on a ledge so it flipped over. My leg was caught under the vehicle and by the time they were able to extract us,” He shrugs, his face twisting at the memory, “well, you can see what happened.”

Steve places his hand over Bucky’s right ankle, giving it a squeeze, “I’m glad you’re here.” he says instead of meaningless apologies. They’re not useful when talking about a bodily injury. He hates hearing them, and he’s learned from VA meetings that other veterans do too.

“The prosthetic is good,” Bucky says, skipping over the heavy talk, “it was a bitch to get used to but it could be so much worse.” He lifts his prosthetic from the floor where it was propped up by the couch, cradling it like it’s a baby, “He’s a Hammer Industries piece, top of the line, guess the government felt sorry for almost killing me with bad intel so they got this commissioned.”

“Never tell Tony it’s Hammer Industries,” Steve groans, wiping his face with a hand, “he’ll start up with his weekly rant about how his products are so much better and will probably try to make his own version of that for you.” He can hear it now, once a week every week since Steve has known him, Tony stands on his metaphorical soapbox on why Justin Hammer sucks as a human, and why his technology also sucks. It’s a long speech that Steve is tired of hearing.

“Wait,” Bucky points the toes of his prosthetic at him, “I might get to meet Tony Stark one day?”

Steve frowns, “Yeah, of course, he’s my friend. I’d like for you to meet my friends when you’re ready.”

“I’m going to meet the fucking Avengers,” Bucky whispers, like it’s a shock Steve’s actually friends with the rest of his team. He looks down at his body for a moment, dropping the prosthetic, and then back up to Steve, “I need to start hitting the gym more.”

Steve rolls his eyes, “They won’t care what you look like, Buck, they’re not like that. They just want me to be happy.” He says honestly, wanting Bucky to not worry about his weight, bodily physique, or anything of that nature. Bucky’s leg, or lack thereof, won’t even phase them. They are friends with a raccoon, afterall. 

Bucky’s face softens, a wobbly smile on his lips, “I make you happy?”

“Of course,” Steve replies, squeezing Bucky’s ankle once more. He says it like it’s a fact of nature. Like oxygen is what people breathe in, like water is what falls from clouds when it rains, like it’s something that has been true since the dawn of time. 

Bucky does make him happy. Truth. 

His friends want him to be happy. Also true.

Bucky moves his bowl of ice cream to the coffee table and leans across the couch, half sitting in Steve’s lap if not for Steve’s own bowl of ice cream. He cups Steve’s face with the hand he’s not using as a balance. Bucky stares into his eyes for a moment then kisses him softly, so softly it almost hurts Steve’s heart, and whispers, “You make me happy, too.”

* * *

**Steve: Do you like cupcakes?**

**Bucky: theyre smaller cakes whats not to like**

**Steve: Red velvet, or German chocolate?**

**Bucky: thats not fair :( both are good flavors**

**Steve: I’ll just have to make you both.**

**Bucky: a man after my own heart <3**

* * *

“Steve, you’ve marched into Nazi Europe. Literally.” Bucky presses his hands to either side of Steve’s face, “Which means my sister will be a piece of cake.”

But she won’t. His missions in WWII were full of tactical errors and getting out of situations by the skin of their teeth. With Bucky’s sister he needs to do everything right, there can be no accidental bomb destinations that serendipitously resulted in the fall of a low-level HYDRA cell.

“Babe,” Bucky sighs, dropping his hands to gently hold Steve’s wasit, “I can see you stuck in your head, I need you to come back out to me.”

Steve blinks the thoughts away, meeting Bucky’s eyes, “It’s not that your sister is worse than going to war,” the corner of Steve’s lips quirk, “it’s that it’s _your_ sister, and I want her to like me, because I plan on sticking around.”

“Oh you do?” Bucky asks, grinning, the grin that alludes to R-rated things later, “And who said you could do that?”

“I did, just now.” 

They’ve only been seeing each other for a little over a month now, but Steve is head over heels for Bucky. The easy way he goes about life, the passion he has for helping people, the way he tries to support other disabled veterans-- it’s humbling, and inspiring, and Steve feels so lucky just to be in this man’s life. Yes, like any other couple they have their ups and downs. Mostly related to the lack of communication they have about their PTSD, the fact that sometimes Bucky works a little too much, just like how Steve is a little too reckless during battles. 

But it’s all things they work through. 

And because Steve is head over heels, he wants to make the best possible impression on Becca.

Steve pulls Bucky’s hands from his waist, bringing them up to his lips to peck the knuckles before tugging them slightly, “Come on, I don’t want my first impression to be keeping her waiting.”

The restaurant Becca chose is a mom and pop style Vietnameese place. The kind with well worn chairs, bathrooms with a small stack of cleaning supplies in the corner, and food so delicious it ruins every other restaurant of similar cuisine. Steve loves it immediately. 

A girl in the corner who is undoubtedly Becca from the similar wavy brown hair, to dimpled chin, waves them over. She’s seated herself in a corner booth with her back to the door, allowing Steve and Bucky to have a perfect view of the entire restaurant. 

“Becs!” Bucky shouts, dropping Steve’s hand to hug his sister before mussing up her hair, “Surprised I got you out of your hole over at Columbia University.”

She rolls her eyes, slapping Bucky on the shoulder, “As if you’re not the one with a horrible schedule,” she pushes Bucky aside, slipping out of the booth to stick her hand out to Steve, “my brother is horribly rude. The name’s Becca, nice to meet you.”

Steve gives her hand one good shake, careful not to squeeze too hard out of nerves, “Steve, the pleasure is all mine.”

Bucky snorts, sliding into the booth, “Steve’s being overly polite because he doesn’t know you yet, don’t get used to it.”

Again, Becca rolls her eyes, “I honestly don’t know why you’re with him, Steve, of all men you pick that one?” She shakes her head, “If I wasn’t so honored that you’re going to be a member of my family I’d call it a waste!”

Steve isn’t familiar with the dynamic that comes from blood related siblings. He was an only child, he didn’t grow up close to his cousins, nor did he have any friends with close sibling relationships. The closest thing he knows to this are the men he fought with during WWII, and his Avenger friends, but it's a different dynamic. They’re bound by shed blood, rather than the kind that runs through veins. They grow with each other in different ways. Their only father figure is a man with a past so dark his own shadow gets lost in it. It’s different. 

Instead of focusing on the dynamics of the Barnes siblings, Steve takes his seat next to Bucky. He looks around the shop while Bucky and Becca compare family gossip- someone’s pregnant, someone got kicked out, someone is stowing away cats in an apartment that doesn’t allow pets- counts his exits, mentally sizes up everyone in the restaurant. The normal. 

“So,” Becca clears her throat, breaking Steve out of the butcher-knife wielding man induced trance, “Steve, what do you do in your free time?”

“Other than me?” Bucky grins.

Becca slaps Bucky’s hand, like a kid who got caught going in the cookie jar.

Steve’s eyes widen, he looks over at Bucky, hoping he gets the message from his raised eyebrows, “If I’m not with your brother,” he corrects, trying not to scar the poor girl, “or at work,” because he needs to make the fact that he’s Captain America-slash-an Avenger be as normal as possible, “I’m usually drawing or catching up on events I’ve missed, spending time with friends,” he shrugs, not sure what she wants to hear, “the usual.”

Becca hums in response, he’s not sure what that means. She meets his eyes, deep brown to his blue, he knows something’s coming. Pleasantries? Over. “And what are your intentions toward my brother?”

A waitress chooses that moment to come up to their table, “Afternoon,” she says, bored,   
“What can I get you to drink?”

The tension at the table is so thick it could be cut with a fork. Bucky’s eyes are like daggers at Becca’s face. Becca is looking at Steve like she isn’t sure whether to swat him like a fly or not. And Steve feels like the Red Skull just revealed that he, in fact, does have a Red Skull. 

“Water,” Steve responds first, meeting the waitresses’ eyes then going back to Becca.

Becca’s eyes do not leave Steve’s, if anything they focus more, “Coke.

“Same,” Bucky’s voice comes from his right. 

The waitress pops her gum, “Be back in a moment.” Then turns on her heel to leave.

They’re silent for a moment. All in some sort of stare off. 

Steve clears his throat, “My intentions,” he beings, not sure where to start, “are to take care of your brother, of Bucky,” He flicks his eyes to Bucky whose now looking at him like he holds all the answers, it gives him confidence, “To take care of him, to be in his company, for as long as he wants me to. And if that time comes that he doesn’t want me, I’ll make my exit quietly.”

She studies his face, then nods, picking up a menu, “So, have you tried their wonton soup?”

Steve lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, and gently places his hand over Bucky’s knee. 

He passed her test.

* * *

Steve scrubs his hands over his face, groaning, “I really, _really_

**Bucky: Steve**

**Steve: Bucky?**

**Bucky: u home**

**Steve: Just got back from a mission, yes.**

**Bucky: Image Attached**

**Bucky: need u rn**

**Steve: I’ll be there ASAP, leave your door unlocked or I’m breaking in and then we’ll have to pay for damages, again.**

**Bucky: Image Attached**

**Bucky: Image Attached**

**Bucky: Image Attached**

**Steve: Stop that! I’m coming.**

**Bucky: me too if u dont get here soon**

* * *

The other shoe?

It drops.

* * *

Steve doesn’t remember falling asleep, if he did they probably wouldn’t be here. 

If he recalled the feeling of drifting off into a deep slumber in Bucky’s bed he would have realized he was overstepping an imaginary boundary they created for each other. He would have sheepishly yawned, scratched the back of his head, kissed Bucky on the forehead or maybe lips, gotten dressed, and made his exit. That was their normal routine, that was what they did after sex. And it was fine. He was used to it. 

So, if he felt the need to get a little shut-eye. If he felt like his Super Serum’d body would betray him. If he felt like he would feel so at ease, so safe, _in love_ , that he’d allow himself to sleep. . .

Well, if he felt any of those things they wouldn’t be here would they?

* * *

Steve wakes with a shock.

His chest feels heavy and throat tight like when he used to get asthma attacks. For a moment, a brief moment upon awakening where he’s not exactly sure what’s going on around him, he thinks he’s back in 1940’s Brooklyn, having an asthma attack in the middle of the night. 

And then he becomes aware. Reality hits him like a train.

“Bucky,” He yells, or tries to, “Bucky, stop!”

Bucky’s sitting on his chest, hands wrapped tight around Steve’s throat, hair falling around them like a curtain. He doesn’t seem to be awake, chest heaving, eyes glossed over in the light that spills in from the street lights. Steve’s hands are at Bucky’s wrists, trying to pull them off with as little force as possible.

Steve could remove him, he knows he can, but too much strength and Bucky could get hurt. His body is kicking into fight or flight gear, and he doesn’t “flight”, he always fights. Getting Bucky off could mean accidentally throwing Bucky across the room because his mind has become trained to hurt, to damage. He just got off a mission, too, his body is prepared to do damage.

“Bucky!” He shouts again, for a human without any genetic engineering or mutation, Bucky’s grip is tight around his neck. His vision is getting increasingly black splotches from the lack of air. In all honesty, Steve doesn’t know how long Bucky has been trying to choke him before he woke up. With his serum, a little asphyxiation wouldn’t do any damage. But for an extended amount of time? Steve doesn’t exactly want to find out.

He tries to slap Bucky, pull him out of the nightmare, but the lack of air means his hands are sloppily dragging across his face. He doesn’t want to flip them over, he doesn’t even know if he can, but he doesn’t want to hurt Bucky. 

“Bucky!” He yells again, this time getting his back off the bed, jolting Bucky off his chest, and thankfully waking him up. 

Steve pushes himself up into a seated position, taking in deep, ragged breaths. Memories of not being able to breathe, of being in the ice with his lungs filled with water, surface. He presses a hand to his own chest, trying to stable himself before he takes care of Bucky.

“What-” Bucky says, sounding confused, “Steve, are you hurt? Did I hurt you? That’s a stupid question, _my hands were around your neck_ of course I hurt you.”

Steve holds up a finger, needing one more moment to himself, to his breath, before moving on the bed so he’s kneeling at Bucky’s side. He ignores Bucky’s questions, “Are you okay?” He touches Bucky’s face, his shoulders, his hands, cataloguing each and every part of Bucky.

“Am _I_ okay? Steve--” He runs a hand through his sweaty hair, “Steve, I just had a nightmare and fucking choked you and you’re asking me if I’m okay?” He laughs, it’s bitter, no humor to be found, “I could have killed you and you’re asking me if I’m okay?”

“You can’t hurt me.” It’s not a lie, nor is it the truth, either. Had Bucky held on longer he may have passed out, after that Steve isn’t sure. He hasn’t exactly tested this out. But Bucky is his concern. Nightmares of their kind aren’t just bad dreams that can be walked off. They haunt, they follow, and that’s the last thing he wants to happen with Bucky. 

Bucky pushes himself up, moving away from Steve’s hands to the headboard of the bed with slow drags of his body, “But I did just hurt you,” he motions to where Steve was just laying, “I had my hands around your throat, I was cutting your air off, I could have killed you.”

Steve frowns, sitting back on his haunches, giving Bucky space, “Buck, don’t you understand? I’m-- I--” he presses his hands to his own chest, “I’m a Super Soldier, it’s almost impossible to hurt me. You can’t kill me. I know better than anyone.” The words come out bitter. He doesn’t mean for them to, he doesn’t mean for this to be the night he brings up his own self-hatred at what he is. 

“Steve,” Bucky says, his eyes are glassy this time with unshed tears, “don’t you understand?” The words are an exact mirror to Steve’s previous, “I can’t sleep with someone in my bed at night without flipping out. I can’t accidentally fall asleep after sex because what if I wake up strangling you? What if I have a violent nightmare?”

“That’s fine,” Steve promises, hoping Bucky hears how genuine his words are, “I won’t stay the night, I won’t fall asleep here, I won’t do any of that. Not until you’re ready.” It’s his fault this happened, anyways. He fell asleep after sex, satisifed and oh so tired from their mission in Ecuador. 

A single tear falls down Bucky’s cheek and it takes every bit of Steve’s power to not reach over and wipe it away, “You deserve so much more,” Bucky says quietly, “you deserve more than this.”

Steve, the boy that never looks away from a fight. That never backs down. “You don’t get to decide what I do or don’t deserve.” He almost puffs his chest, makes himself look bigger, but that’s not what this moment needs.

Bucky’s lips quiver, he looks away from Steve out the window, “Well,” his voice breaks, “I decide what I deserve, and it’s not you.”

“Buck,” Steve says, quiet like if he says it any louder the night will break into more pieces than it already is. He knows what Bucky’s words allude to, he knows what’s coming next, but he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to hear it, “Buck,” he starts again, “but I love you.” It’s the first time he’s said it. It’s a plea, it’s Steve trying to bare his soul to Bucky, trying to avoid the next moment, trying to get Bucky to understand that everything’s okay. They’re okay. Maybe if he said it sooner, maybe if--

“Yeah,” Bucky sighs, his lips wet from quietly shed tears, “well, I don’t deserve that. So I’m asking,” this time he looks at Steve, grey eyes meeting blue, “and since you love me,” Bucky purses his lips, looking away, gaining composure. “Since you love me,” he repeats, “since you promised my sister, I need you to leave.”

Steve would do anything for Bucky. He’d go to war for Bucky. He’d burn bridges. He’d bring him the sun and the stars if he asked. But this? Steve doesn’t want to do this. He knows he promised Becca over soup and spring rolls that he would leave quietly if Bucky asked, that all he wants to do is take care of Bucky. He wants to break that promise, but he can’t.

“I need you to go.” Bucky’s voice is quiet, emotionless despite the tears, “Please, Steve. Go.”

Steve wants to fight. He wants to argue, he wants to plead and yell and beg Bucky for anything else. He’d do anything else except this. 

But he does love Bucky.

And he would do anything for Bucky. 

So, quietly, he steps off Bucky’s bed. He dresses with the clothes that were so passionately taken off his body only hours ago. He wills his entire soul to ignore the sounds of Bucky trying to conceal his sorrows, his pain as he pulls his shirt over his head. 

He’s two steps from the door when he turns around, his heart breaking even more than he thought it could at the sight of Bucky, “I really do love you, Buck.” He looks at the floor then back at Bucky, “Call me? When you’re ready?” He doesn’t say “if you’re ready” because then that would mean this is real. They’re really breaking up, and Steve can’t face that yet. 

He sighs stepping out of Bucky’s room and gently shutting the door behind him.

When Steve gets back to his apartment he slides down the door. Sitting, slumped on the floor for so long his legs are numb when he finally gets up. 

Again, like when he first woke up from the ice. 

He feels empty.

* * *

A month passes and Bucky doesn’t call.

* * *

This is it, this is how he dies. 

There’s metal lodged in every part of his chest, there’s blood in his mouth, and his head feels so heavy it’s like a tree full of pollen socked him in the face. It’s not _not_ a dignified way to die, he’ll be hailed an even larger hero than he already is, chocked full of robot pieces and still swinging his shield around like it’s going to do something.

“Sam,” he says into the comm, spitting out some phlegmy blood, “what’s going on over there?”

“I’m down,” Sam’s voice is tired when he talks, Steve wishes he could slap him on the shoulder one last time, “now I have fifty flights of stairs to walk down.”

“Tony?” Steve figures he’ll go down the line, check in on everyone before he never sees them again. 

“Trying my best!” Tony yells, his voice echoes in his helmet, “These are worse than Ultron, I don’t know if I should take that as an insult on my accidental evil robot making skills.”

Steve smashes one with his shield, sagging, he’s surrounded in the middle of Prospect Park. There’s no higher ground for him to take, there’s no vantage point, there’s nowhere for him to go. 

Clint groans, not waiting his turn to be called on, “My fingers are getting blistered. My. Fingers.” The woosh of air from an arrow being shot can be heard over the comm, “I have gloves on!”

“Suck it up.” To a normal ear Natasha sounds fine, like nothing’s wrong with her. But Steve’s been on mission, upon mission with her. Not only that, but he considers them close friends, maybe even best friends. He can hear the fatigue in her voice, she may even be hurt, “We’ve been through worse.”

There’s a faint red glow covering the city, Steve notices. He hits one more robot with his shield and looks to the sky. Slowly, robots are being lifted off the ground into a big, red ball of metal. Above them a red dot floats, Wanda. 

“I’ve almost got them all,” Wanda’s voice is strained, she’s using her powers to their maximum limit, “if you can hold them off a moment longer they will all be destroyed.” Steve wonders if this reminds her of her brother, of losing him, he makes a mental note to check on her later. 

If he’s still alive, that is.

“You’re doing good, kid.” Steve grunts, taking a moment to bend over and lean against his shield. He knows the movement isn’t wise, especially from the blood that drips onto the floor, but he needs to breathe. He hopes she can pull them all together before the rest of the team ends up in a state similar to his. Not every Avenger needs to die.

Eventually, after a moments pass of him barely even slapping at the robots with his shield, they glow red and rise into the sky. He watches them float away, like a balloon released by a child, before crouching. He uses his shield as something to lean his body weight against, sighing, the battle is done. He can rest. 

The red orb in the sky slowly shrinks into a beach-ball size of metal, “Good job, Wanda.” He tells her, wanting to give her one more validation before he passes out. 

“Not a problem,” She’s breathless, he watches her float down near him, the orb following, “Steve, are you okay?”

He shrugs his shoulders, she can’t see it, “Just a little scratch, that’s all.” He sits back on his haunches, the shield falling in front of him. 

“Steve?” This time it’s Natasha. He guesses she knows when he’s hurt, when he’s lying, just like he knows her. Maybe they are best friends. “You good there?”

Wanda touches the ground a hundred yards in front of him, the orb falling behind her with a loud thud, and runs to him. Her leather cape flaps behind her, she’s always been one for dramatics. She kneels at his side, having covered the ground quickly, her hands hovering over his body like she isn’t sure what to do. This might be what truly reminds her of her brother.

“You’re hurt,” She touches the front of his bloodsoaked uniform, “he’s hurt!” She says into the comm, her voice frantic. 

Steve just shakes his head, trying to get up from the group, “I’m fine.” But the floor slips out from under him, his feet missing a step, and thankfully his hands break his fall. 

Wanda scoops up all two hundred plus pounds of him, sometimes he forgets how strong she is. That’s she’s not a little kid. 

“I’m taking him to the hospital, he can’t wait for our medics.” They shoot off the ground, red power swallowing them, and soar through the sky. Usually, he loves a birds eye view of the city. He doesn’t get it often, only mid or post battle when Sam or Tony pick him up/deposit him to a location. Usually, he would absorb it all, save it for a drawing later, not take the moment for granted, but all he can do now is close his eyes and lean his head back. The mix of blood loss, high elevation, and residual effects of Wanda’s magic are making him nauseous. The last thing he wants to do is barf on Wanda’s nice uniform. He’s not too sure standard dry cleaning would work with the mix of leathers she has going on.

Before he knows it (or maybe he passed out?) they’re in the hospital.

And he must be day dreaming. Or dead. In heaven? Because that’s--

“Steve!” 

“Yes,” Wanda yells, panicked, “it’s Steve Rogers, Captain America, and he’s hurt.” Her voice raises after every word, her grip is tight where she’s almost cradling him, he feels bad that he might die in her arms, “Can you help him? Can somebody help him?”

Steve reaches his hand out, it’s taking all his energy but he _needs_ to do this, “Bucky, Bucky, is that you?”

“Bucky?” Her voice is surprised now, “Like your ex, Bucky?” Wanda asks, her voice is fading out, he’s going to miss her.

“I wanted to see you one last time,” Steve sighs, content, he can close his eyes now. 

“Steve?” Two voices yell, “Steve?!”

* * *

He’s in the ice again. 

Was everything he experienced, everyone he knew, all just a vivid dream? Did his brain create a life for him? It’s happened before. He once dreamed he gave Peggy that dance, they went to the Stork and swayed gently to the croon of Ella Fitzgerald, and then he woke up to brittle bones and lungs filled with water. 

His brain must have been working overtime with that one. He met so many people, made so many friends, and had so many experiences. None of which he could have ever dreamt of - until now, he guesses.

He knows he’s in the ice again because he feels cold.

Ice in his veins, a chill at his fingers and toes. Usually it feels worse. There’s a lot more full body shivers that would crack his teeth if his mouth was able to move. A lot more choking on water. 

But-

Wait. 

There’s warmth on his body too. It’s _just_ his fingers, his toes, and maybe his nose that’re cold. There’s no water in his lungs, there’s no ice stopping him from flexing his jaw, and there’s sounds. 

He couldn’t hear anything while submerged. 

Now, he can hear a faint beeping, the shuffling of people, talking that’s too far away for him to register the words. 

And, oh, he can open his eyes. 

Bright light assaults his eyes as he opens them. Steve takes in the room, laying still, chills deep in his veins because what if he wakes up to the sound of a ball game he’s already heard? 

Nothing of the sort meets his ears, so he relaxes into the bed.

From first glance, he’s in an infirmary. Second glance tells him it’s Stark’s and not any random hospital. Tell tale signs include: Stark’s logo on every surface, a screen in front of the bed with every bodily stat one could think of tracked, and a tiny Iron Man figurine on the table next to Steve’s shoulder. He almost flicks it over with his finger but decides against it. 

Thankfully, he’s alone in the room. Not that he doesn’t want to see his friends, but he’d like to process everything on his own. Steve sits up with a groan, his chest and abdomen feel like someone punched him over and over again. He feels bruised all over, like maybe the bully was a bit too big that time. 

And then he remembers.

Robots. Impaled body. Wanda. _Bucky_.

Steve begins to move quickly, he rips off the sticky pads tracking his stats, ignoring the machines beeping louder, as alartmed as he is. He pushes himself off the bed, taking a moment to let the dizziness wash over him and realize that yes, standing hurts. It’s a foreign feeling in his body. 

He’s about to put on the shoes left for him beside his bed when the door flies open. doctor Cho walks in, followed shortly by Sam and Natasha. 

“Mister Rogers,” doctor Cho approaches him with her hands raised, like she’s talking to a cornered dog, “I need you to get back in that bed, you’re not ready to be up and moving.”

Steve pauses, flicking his eyes between the three of them, he can take them need be, and shoves his feet into the shoes, “Can’t do that.”

“Steve,” Natasha sighs, crossing her arms, “I could just tranq you, but I’m a better friend than that.” Her lips quirk before the angry mask she’s wearing covers it, “Get your ass back into bed.”  
Steve loves her, he does, but he could be out of the room before she pulls out her gun.

“I’m not a tranq advocate,” Sam shrugs, leaning against the far wall, giving Steve space, “but I do agree that you need to get back in bed. Cause if you don’t you’re just going to ruin all of doctor Cho’s hard work and then we’ll really have to sedate you.” Sam always uses logic when talking to Steve. It’s the smartest thing to do, but sometimes logic doesn’t work. 

He sighs, that hurts too, “I’ll get back into bed after I go see Bucky and let him know I’m not dead.” Steve reaches down to hook a finger into the back of the shoe, pulling it over his heel. He tries to hide the grimace, because he really needs them to believe him that he’s not hurting so he can take a quick trip to Brooklyn. The subway won’t be that difficult to get to, he would even opt for a ride share or one of Tony’s cars. Hell or high water and all that. 

“Woah, woah, woah,” Sam raises a hand, cutting off Steve’s nonsense, “Bucky doesn’t think you’re dead. Dude,” he huffs, shaking his head probably thinking about how much of an idiot Steve is, “he’s in the Tower. He’s been here since Stark brought you over.”

That stops Steve enough that he stumbles back, sitting on the edge of the bed, “He’s here?” His mind races. Can he see him again? Does that mean he still cares? Will they get back together?

Natasha nods slowly, a small frown on her lips now, he thinks this one is genuine, “Tony set him up on your floor, the hospital thinks he’s here to be your nurse.”

Steve lets out a breath, relief rushing through his body. doctor Cho takes that moment to check over him, tapping on her tablet, scanning his body with a small gun.

“How long have I been out?”

This time it’s Sam that sags, leaning his body weight against the wall, arms crossed over his chest and head held up by the wall, “Almost two weeks,” he trails off, looking at the floor, and Steve feels guilty for putting this on him, on them, “it was pretty rough.”

“My science and your body’s science did not want to collaborate.” doctor Cho says, tapping some more at her tablet, she looks at him and smiles, “It seems that even passed out you are stubborn.”

Natasha snorts at that, she points at him with a manicured finger, it’s grey today, “Get back in bed and I’ll bring Bucky, deal?”

Steve frowns at her, “Fine, but I’m not doing this because you told me to. Only because I want to.”

She reads through it, like words on a piece of tracing paper, “Whatever you say, Steve.”

* * *

Bucky walks in close to half an hour later. 

Doctor Cho has been poking and prodding, asking questions, then silently tapping all the information into her tablet. Steve tries his best not to fuss, not to make her job any harder than it is because he’s restless with the need to see Bucky again. It’s not her fault he’s a love sick idiot. 

Steve’s eyes flick up to the door at the sound of it opening and it feels like everything he’s been carrying on his shoulders, conscious or not, seeps away. Bucky looks tired, his eyes have dark circles under them, his hair is in a messy bun, and he’s in a matching Stark Industries sweat suit, as if Tony couldn’t afford to clothe him in anything else. Despite that all, Bucky’s the most beautiful thing he’s seen in months. 

Doctor Cho makes her exit quietly after sticking some of the monitoring pads to his bare chest. 

He’s not sure how to act. Friends? Exes? Lovers? Nothing seems right. The dynamic of Bucky asking him to leave and them seeing each other again because he’s hurt is confusing. But Bucky chose to be here, he didn’t have to come, as far as Steve knows nobody made him. On top of that, nobody made Bucky stay in the Tower for the entire two weeks Steve was under. Those things, in combination with the way Bucky gently touches his cheek, makes Steve’s heart tentatively swell with hope. 

“Thought you were going to die for a moment there,” Bucky says it like a confession, like he hasn’t admitted that before, his fingers trace a bruise on Steve’s cheek, “the woods were real thick, if you know what I mean.”

Steve rests his hands over Bucky’s, “I can’t be killed,” Steve half jokes, he rubs his thumb on the back of Bucky’s hand, “just a little beaten up sometimes.” 

Bucky doesn’t cry but his eyes gloss over with unshed tears and guilt swallows Steve’s stomach, “I was worried the last time we would have really seen each other would be when I kicked you out.” He sighs, closing his eyes for a moment, a pained expression crossing his face, “That you were going to die before I could make things right.”

“Hey, hey,” Steve sits up, forcing himself not to wince at the pain and make Bucky feel worse. Bucky’s taller than him while he’s sitting on the bed, but he makes it work. He guides Bucky between his thighs with the hand still holding Bucky’s and wraps his arms around his waist. This way, Bucky is able to lean over and envelop Steve with his body, “I’m alive,” Steve says, his lips moving against Bucky’s shirt, “it may have taken me a bit to wake up, but I’m still here. I’m not going anywhere.” Steve will fight Death herself before he leaves this world while Bucky is still on it. 

Bucky pulls back a moment, both of his hands cupping Steve’s face, “You gotta promise you won’t leave again,” this time a tear does fall, Bucky’s lips quiver as he speaks, “even if I ask you to, I need you to do whatever it takes to stay with me.”

Steve nods, his hands have drifted to Bucky’s hips, thumbs mindlessly rubbing small circles into the fabric of his shirt. He tips his head back, silently asking, worried to use his words in the event that it’s too much too soon, but thankfully Bucky gets it. 

Their kiss is chaste. It tastes like salty tears and artificial mint chapstick, but it’s so familiar. Steve’s been craving this for a month, the gentle press of his lips to Bucky’s. He feels a lump forming in his throat, it’s like his mind only just realized how much he actually missed Bucky. Like his body was protecting itself by pushing any Bucky-related emotions to the very bottom of his heart. 

They both pull back, Bucky leaning his forehead against Steve’s, “Can I lay with you?” He asks quietly, as if Steve would say no.

“You don’t need to ask, Buck,” Steve says, moving back so he can adjust himself on the bed, “the answer will always be yes.”

Bucky doesn’t respond, just kicks his own shoes off and slides into the bed. Thankfully, it’s a standard full size bed that can be propped up and not a hospital bed with bars. While it’s not designed for one genetically engineered man and another standard issue human, they make it work. Steve lays on his back, careful with his injuries and doctor Cho’s hard work, and Bucky curls around him. His head pillowed on Steve’s shoulder, left arm behind Steve’s neck, and right hand just under Steve’s belly button. It’s so familiar, like nothing ever happened, like they haven’t spent a month away from each other.

“I’ve been practicing,” Bucky breaks the silence first, his index finger tapping at Steve’s skin, a nervous tick, “sleeping,” he clarifies, taking in a deep breath, “with Becca in my bed, sometimes one of my other friends, Riley.”

Steve makes a mental note to ask about this Riley character later, but doesn’t interrupt what is probably a difficult conversation for Bucky.

“It wasn’t pretty at first, no choking or violence, but a lot of nightmares.” His index finger transitions into tracing the rim of Steve’s belly button, if he was a normal human he’d be dying of ticklish-related laughter, “But it got better, _I_ got better. I still have bad nights, but I want to keep practicing.” His finger stops completely, “With you, that is.”

Steve wishes he could be looking at Bucky right now and not the annoyingly bright ceiling lights, but he figures if Bucky wanted to be eye-to-eye they wouldn’t be doing this laying down. He awkwardly rests his hand over Bucky’s, squeezing gently, “Anything, Buck, I’ll take anything you’re offering. I want to be there for you, any way you need me.”

Bucky nods against his shoulder, moving in closer, “Want a trial run now?” Bucky chuckles, this time there is humor in his voice, “I’m pretty sure if I were to start choking you Black Widow would take me down in two seconds flat.”

“You won’t choke me,” Steve rolls his eyes, if they’re joking about it that’s a good step, “but I can’t promise she won’t attempt to end your life if you do.” That’s what friends of the assassin variation are there for, he guesses. 

Bucky sighs, it’s deep with his whole body relaxing against Steve’s and the bed, “I missed you, Steve.” Like earlier, another confession.

“I missed you, too.” And he did, so much, more than he realized until these moments with Bucky again.

“Did you mean it?” Bucky’s voice is quiet, even in the silent room, “What you said before you left, did you mean it?”

Steve knows exactly what Bucky’s asking about. He doesn’t play dumb, act like he forgot. He answers quickly, honestly, because this is the most sure he’s been about something in a while, “I love you, Bucky, a month apart didn’t change that.” He licks his lips, lacing his fingers with Bucky’s atop his stomach, “It’s okay if you’re not ready to say it back,” lord knows he shouldn’t even be saying it, “but I just want you to know what I do. Love you, that is.” 

Bucky just hums in response, pressing a kiss to Steve’s shoulder, and that’s fine. Steve doesn’t need to hear it now. This, Bucky trusting him enough to lay in this bed together, that’s more than he could ask for. It’s more than he could dream to want. 

Steve closes his eyes, moving his head so it’s pillowed on top of Bucky’s. Thanks to the serum, he won’t have a crick in his neck later. 

He allows the fatigue from his injuries and the feeling of being safe from Bucky’s body curved around him to wash over him like a soft blanket. He tries to count Bucky’s inhales and exhales but he doesn’t even get past six before sleep takes the wheel and he’s out.

* * *

Steve doesn’t wake up to the feeling of Bucky’s hands around his throat.

Instead, they’re both rudely awoken from the sound of the door slamming open and the Avengers parading in like Steve isn’t recovering. 

He wishes he could hate them.

* * *

Sleeping in the same bed requires a lot of trial and error. 

Sometimes they both stay awake out of fear for the other, or out of fear of what their dreams hold for them. 

Other nights it’s smooth sailing. They fall asleep facing each other and Steve will wake up with a mouth full of Bucky’s hair, blanketless. 

They compromise with each other. Sometimes Bucky’s too afraid of what might happen that Steve opts for a couple blankets on the floor, claiming the bed’s too soft. Sometimes Steve is so restless from his own nightmares that they end up on the couch, sitting at opposite ends with blankets over their legs and _Chef’s Table_ playing quietly on TV. 

Bucky still worries about hurting Steve.

Steve still only sleeps about four hours on a normal night, maybe six after a long day on the job. 

But they make it work, and they love each other. 

And that’s all Steve could ask for.

**Author's Note:**

> [My Tumblr](https://sorrowingsoldier.tumblr.com/)


End file.
